


For A Good Time, Call

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Eventual "plot", M/M, Masturbation, Mostly Canon Compliant, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Rimming, Romance, UST, Verbal D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Arthur is uptight and can’t sleep. A colleague gives him the number of someone who can help him laugh and relax (spoiler alert, it’s Eames).Canon AU- Arthur and Eames haven't met before, though both are in dreamshare.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, the first four chapters of this are pretty focused on conversation and then the tone shifts abruptly in the fifth chapter to a more traditional narrative. Just fyi, so it doesn't surprise the reader.
> 
> Many thanks to Dandalf_the-disco for early feedback and to Amorette for betaing and cheerleading and all-around awesomeness! And many thanks to Aja for helping with a critical part of the plot!

Eames is in the middle of a wank when his cell rings. He flips it over to check the number, pausing in his upward stroke. Doesn’t recognize it, ignores it. Goes back to business, thumb swiping over the head, causing a shudder and an upward thrust. He’s not thinking of anything in particular, he’s just in a mindset at the moment where everything seems to turn him on. The blood is flowing, pulsing through his dick and he’s flushed now, really getting into it. Images flash through his head - memories, glimpses of dreams, fantasies.

The phone rings again. Fuck.

He glances at it. It’s the same unknown number. Rolling his eyes and keeping his other hand loosely on his cock, he picks up the phone, thumbs the green phone icon.

“This is Will,” he says, voice a little fucked-out sounding. He clears his throat.

“Hi, er, this is-” the voice halts. “Nevermind, this is stupid.”

Hm. Intriguing. The voice on the other end is not familiar, but the baritone rasp of it sends a thrill up his spine. “I doubt it’s stupid, though it might be misguided,” he says, and gets a laugh in reply.

“I’ll say it is. Look, you don’t know me. Um, my name is Arthur.”

“Arrrthurr,” Eames savors the name on his tongue. He is surprised by how much he enjoys saying the archaic, terminally unhip name. He doesn’t care why the guy called, he suddenly just wants to keep him on the phone.

“Uh, yeah,” he confirms and clears his throat. “I just, uh, this is really embarrassing. I got your number from someone. They told me that you, uh. That you’re entertaining to talk to. I have trouble relaxing sometimes. Can’t sleep. This is a terrible idea, I’m sorry. I’ll just let you go.”

“No,” Eames says sharply, then chuckles. “No, it’s a wonderful idea. I am a delight to talk with, your information is accurate.”

“Ah. Well. Okay, then. Don’t you want to know who gave me your number?”

“Not particularly.”

Arthur laughs softly. “Okay, that’s cool, I guess. Really, you don’t want to know?”

“Let’s keep it a mystery, Arthur. There are so few genuine mysteries left in the world. Now, why don’t you tell me what has you so wound up you needed to call a strange man in the middle of the night.” He pitches his tone low, confidential. He can get into this.

“Oh shit, is it the middle of the night there? It’s like midnight where I am.” Arthur does sound tense, poor chap. Eames wonders who he is, what he looks like. 

“No, it’s midday actually. I assumed it was the middle of the night where you are if you’re reduced to blind calling for soporific purposes. No worries, I have all the time in the world.” He put a broad smile in his voice to drive home that everything was fine. 

“You don’t know me. Why are you putting up with this?” 

“Oh, I do this all the time,” Eames lies. “I'm quite in demand as an emergency agony aunt.” 

Arthur laughed again. “It’s not - I don’t need advice exactly. You do have a soothing voice, though. Um. Where are you?”

“Ah, I think we should keep our locations confidential, my dear. You never know who may be listening.”

“Fair enough. So. I’m not going to learn much about you, am I?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Just not my location or profession. Anything else is fair game, I suppose. What would you like to know?”

Arthur pauses. “This is different than I thought it would be. Although,” he laughs ruefully, “I have no idea what I even expected, so…”

“Let’s start with you, Arthur. What helps you relax? What can I offer here?” 

Arthur sighs, at length. “I don’t really know. I need to laugh, I guess. Um. This is - I don’t know what that guy was thinking. You’re very nice and your voice is - nice, but I think.” A long pause. “I’m sorry to waste your time.”

“Don’t,” Eames nearly barks to prevent Arthur from hanging up. The truth is, Eames is a bit at loose ends in Montreal. He’s just doing some clean-up on a job that ended a few days ago and doesn’t have another job lined up for a few weeks. He’s out of touch with most of the people he used to interact with around here, due to a job that went south a year ago. “You aren’t wasting my time. I take offense at the statement that my voice is merely _nice_ when I have it on good authority that I could read the phone book and melt your knickers off, but,” he breaks off because Arthur is laughing again. “That’s better. That’s lovely. You have a lovely laugh, Arthur.”

Arthur’s laughter trails off. “God, this is so weird. Thanks for talking with me.”

“I feel like all I’ve done is keep you on the phone, thus far.”

“That’s okay. It’s kind of awesome just to, like, exchange words with someone who doesn’t need anything from me. If that makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense, darling. You’re an extremely sensible person, which is evidenced in the fact that you’ve done as I’ve told you and stayed on the phone. Tell me, Arthur, do you take direction well?”

“Ha! Um, it depends on the circumstances. Why?” He sounds cautiously intrigued. 

“Well, if I’m going to help you relax, I’ll need you to do as I say. I have some suggestions. They might not all be… intuitive.”

“Um. Like what?”

“Well. Like this. Are you lying down?”

“Uhhh….” There’s reluctance and doubt in the sound, but also a smile hiding behind that.

“Ah, no. Not for that. Just, are you? Lying down? Or are you sitting, all wound up, shoulders tight, frozen in one position?”

“Oh, haha. The latter. I guess I should…”

“Yes, lie down, there’s a lad,” Eames says, his cock twitching. He tucks it away, surprised he had forgotten all about it. “Now, close your eyes. Are they closed?” 

“Mmmm.”

“Are you - what are you wearing?”

Arthur laughs again, and Eames is really starting to like the sound. “I thought it wasn’t like that? I’m wearing a button down shirt, a tie, a suit, well the pants, anyway-”

“Hold on there, salaryman,” Eames says with a disbelieving chuckle. “Did you say ‘a tie’?”

He hears muffled noises on the line and then Arthur says, “Yeah, I realized how dumb that was as soon as I said it. I mean, I’m usually quite comfortable in a tie, but-”

“I have no earthly clue how you could ever be comfortable in a tie. You certainly mustn’t wear them to bed, dear. Unless - ah, but I said I wouldn’t go there. So. Now. The tie is dealt with, hm?”

“Yeah. Should I…”

“Yes, you should. Change into something more comfortable.” He hears lots of distant rustling, Arthur must have put the phone down to disrobe. This is sending sparks of anticipation down Eames’ nerve endings, which is ridiculous. He doesn’t even know what Arthur looks like, what kind of person he is. 

“There. I’m - well, I’m more comfortable. I don’t know why I was still wearing all that, it’s hot as fuck here.”

“Ah ah, no clues. Although I could do with a bit of heat, it’s cold as a witch’s tit where I am. So, naked, are you?”

“No, I’m not - not naked. Just, I don’t have pajamas. I sleep in my underwear.”

Eames cuts himself off before he asks what color they are. Too close to a cliche, that. “Take a deep breath, Arthur.” He waits until he hears the intake. “Hold it for five, four, three, two, one. Now let it out slowly. Like you’re blowing on a candle.”

He hears the stream of breath flow out, though not obnoxiously loud; Arthur must be holding the phone away from his mouth. How considerate. “Now, another. And this time I want you to visualize a place in which you’ve been relaxed and content. Are you thinking of a place?”

“Hm.” Another long pause, this one with more audible breathing. “Yeah, I’ve got something.”

“Good. Keep breathing and I’m going to guide your visualization. I want you to think about how you feel in every part of your body. Start from your head down. Relax your brow. If you’re the type that has a line furrowed between your eyebrows, erase it. Let it blow away with your next breath.”

Arthur lets out a deep breath that is almost vocalized. It sounds like the merest shadow of a moan and it sends a spreading warmth through Eames’ groin, for some reason. It must just be the thrill of success - he can tell that it’s working, Arthur is already relaxing. 

“Now. Relax your mouth. Let it fall open, like someone is about to kiss you - someone whom you want to kiss you.” He listened closely for any further signs of reaction but the breathing seemed almost to stop. 

“Keep breathing, Arthur.” He hears a deep slow inhale. “Good boy. Now relax your shoulders. Let them drop all the way down to the bed. Imagine someone with ineffably gentle hands pressing down on them until they can drop no lower. All the tension melts out of you.”

Another barely voiced breath - the sound goes straight to his cock. Eames smiles - he adores finding new kinks within the chambers of his psyche and here is another one. Helping someone let go. Who knew.

“Keep breathing, Arthur,” he says, letting his voice purr out the name. “Now relax your stomach. Imagine all the stress you’ve been feeling pool in your belly button and swirl down the drain. It seeps out your back into the bed, under the bed, through the floor, away.” 

A smirk creeps over Eames’ face as he considers his next move. “Now relax your hips. Let them melt, let your legs fall open. Keep breathing in and out and sink down into the bed like someone has their hands, ever so gently, pressing your hips into the mattress.” A moan this time, quiet enough to be deniable but most definitively there. Eames has excellent hearing. 

“This is working, Will,” Arthur says, and Eames blinks. Oh yes, he’d given his first name. He supposes he must have thought the call was coming from Yusuf. “This is… I feel so much better. Thank you.” He sounds drugged. Eames is burningly curious to know what he looks like. He imagines hooded, sleepy eyes; a pert, wide mouth; slender torso and strong limbs - Christ, he’s merely imagining his ideal type. 

He stops his own spontaneous visualization and refocuses on the person on the other end of the line. No matter what he looks like, his voice is appealing in the extreme. And this is just a fantasy, anyway. Eames internally shrugs. 

“Shall I let you go, Arthur? Do you think you’ll be able to sleep now?”

“Mmmm, yeah, think so,” he murmurs, sounding like he already has one foot in dreamland. “Thanks so much, Will. You didn’t have to.”

“It was my pleasure entirely, darling,” Eames says with all sincerity. “Call anytime.”


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur calls back three days later. It’s quite a bit sooner than Eames was anticipating but he doesn’t mind at all. He has hardly anything to occupy him after all; Montreal is freezing cold and he doesn’t ski. 

“Will? Is this a good time?” He sounds ragged.

“Arthur, darling! How are you?”

“Pretty shitty, actually. Sorry for my language.”

Eames laughs out loud. “Never fear, you’ve not offended virgin ears. Are you having difficulty sleeping?”

“No, it’s not that. I mean, yes. Though I guess I should let you know I slept like a baby the other night, best sleep in, uh, years actually. But I. Well, it’s hard to explain.”

“I’m listening.” Eames senses that there’s something deeper going on here than a simple tightly-wound guy struggling with insomnia. He knows he should recommend that Arthur get a therapist, he’s hardly qualified to handle anything but mild dysphoria and moderate-to-severe sexual frustration, but he’s so curious he can’t help himself. 

A long sigh, followed by a slight grunt. “My job is. Well. I have too much responsibility and not enough authority. I’m kind of burnt out.”

“You sound completely done in, my dear. What can I do to help?”

“I just need to not think for a minute. Can you - Christ, I don’t even know what I’m asking for. A bedtime story?” He laughs defeatedly. “This is nuts. I can go.”

“Arthur, we’ve been through all that. This is what I do,” Eames says, not exactly lying. He does take people into his confidence for a living, just not usually pro bono. Although there might be something in this for him after all, he thinks, as he adjusts himself in his trousers. _This is why you’d make a terrible therapist_ , he reminds himself. 

“Okay. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s alright, I’m pretty sure I know what you’re doing.” 

He could actually feel Arthur bristle on the other end of the line. “And how do you know that?” he asked, an edge to his tone.

“Because I’ve been where you’re at. Too much pressure, too little release. Let me help you, Arthur.” 

“What does help look like, in a situation like this?” Arthur sounds wary, which is sensible.

Eames pauses, gauging his quarry. He means Arthur no harm, absolutely no harm. And of course, he’s free to reject the offer. 

“There are certain dynamics possible between two people in which one of them takes the reins, so to speak, allowing the other to just… let go. Does that sound good to you? Letting go?”

Arthur let out a breath, not quite a sigh. “Huh. Yeah, it does.”

“I’d like to do that for you, help you just detach from whatever’s going on in your life right now. Your job, whatever it is.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Arthur is clearly dubious but he’s going along with it. “When you say ‘certain dynamics,’ what does that mean, exactly?”

Eames rolls his eyes- Arthur is definitely a control freak. He needs this so badly, he just doesn’t know it yet. 

“I think what you want to know is whether there’s a sexual component to this.”

Arthur takes a sharp breath in. “Yeah. I just need a little, you know. Specificity.”

“Mm. I understand. The answer is yes. A rather strong sexual component. Is that acceptable, Arthur?”

He hears Arthur’s breath hitch. “What should I do, then?”

Eames smiles. “To start with, I need you make me a promise.”

“A promise. What kind of promise?”

“To do what I tell you to do. Can you do that for me, Arthur?” Eames has turned on his boyfriend voice, the voice that promises pleasures untold for the lucky recipient of his dulcet tones. 

“Hm. Yeah, maybe.” Arthur sounds intrigued but skeptical. And unwillingly excited.

“You’re going to have to do a lot better than maybe,” Eames says, with an undercurrent of command. “I need a yes.”

“Yes,” Arthur huffs out. 

“Yes?”

“Yes,” a confirmation, an agreement. A submission.

“‘I promise to do what you tell me to do, Will’ - say it.”

“I promise to do what you tell me to do. Will.”

“Good,” Eames praises, voice all honey. “Lovely, Arthur. Take your clothes off and lay down on the bed.”

“Yes sir,” says Arthur with a hint of sarcasm. 

“Arthur,” Eames says with a mild warning tone.

“Yes sir,” and this time it’s shockingly demure. Perfect. Eames loves it when people do what he wants them to do, but even more when they surprise him. 

Eames listens as Arthur has clearly put the phone down and is complying with his instruction. He puts his own phone on speaker and puts it down to get himself more comfortable, taking his trousers off and laying on the bed. Then he picks his phone back up.

“Are you ready for me?”

“Yes.” A beat. “Sir.”

“Now run your hands down your body for me, lightly, just the fingertips. I want you to wake up every nerve.”

He pauses, imagining Arthur doing as he’s told. He can’t help it, his mind supplies an image of a long lanky body, trim and lightly muscled. The chest is hairless, the hips limber and flexible, the shoulders just broad enough. 

“Where are your fingers right now?”

“Um, just under my nipples.”

Eames feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. Something about the tentative voice does him in. “Circle your nipples. With your fingertips. Round and round. Pinch them.”

A gasp.

“Roll the nipples between your thumb and forefinger. Tug on them.” His dick is completely hard. Throbbing in his pants. He presses down on it, giving it a rub.

“Ahhh, oh God,” Arthur says softly. It sounds like it was involuntary, not meant to come out. 

“Now stop. Feel the way they tingle - let that feeling sink into you, focus on that. Let the sparks of sensation drift down into your body, through your veins.” He pauses for a long moment. “Now. Do it again.”

The third go-round on Arthur’s nipples, he starts moaning softly and Eames just gives up and pulls his cock out of his pants. 

“Lift your knees up, feet shoulder width apart on the bed. Are you in position?” He can hear how rough his voice has become.

“Yes, sir.” Arthur is breathless, altered. It’s clear that he’s entering a different state of consciousness. Eames is hard with the realization that it’s him who’s taken him there.

“Let your knees fall apart, towards the bed. Trail your fingers up and down the crease of your thighs.”

He hears a huff of breath, imagines Arthur’s fingers doing as he’s described. Long slender fingers, but strong. Capable. 

“Move your hands to your cheeks now, the underside where you can reach. Tease the skin there. Pull the cheeks apart.”

Arthur moans, loudly. It’s so much more vocal than he’s been that a sharp spike of arousal lances through Eames. 

“Now, feel inside, just the tips of your fingers caressing between your cheeks. Does that feel good?” 

“Nnnngh, yes.” A long sigh, a soft moan. Eames is dripping precome. 

“Are you wet, Arthur?” 

A hitched breath. “Yes.”

“How wet?”

“So… so wet.”

Eames grunts, unable to stop himself. 

“Wet enough I could wank you with it? Wet enough to slide your hand up and down?” 

“Uh huh.”

“Dear lord.” Eames grimaces as he’s broken character, but this Arthur person is going to ruin him. He knows, he doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows that Arthur is simply telling the truth. Arthur has a wet cock and Arthur likes letting Eames tell him what to do. Why would he lie? He doesn’t know Eames, doesn’t have any reason to lie. 

“I like that, Arthur. I like that your lovely cock gets all wet.”

Arthur moans, long and wantonly. Eames grabs at the base of his cock.

“I want to wank your cock, Arthur. I want to wrap my hand around it, slide it up to the head, squeeze around the crown and swipe my thumb over it, make you jerk and twitch, make your body chase the feeling.” Arthur inhales sharply. “I want to make you buck up into my hand, move you up and down into infinity. Are you fucking your hand, Arthur?”

“Yyyyesss,” comes the agonized reply.

“Good. Imagine it’s my hand.” 

“Oh fuck, Will - oh fuck I’m - oh I’m coming, fffffuck.” Arthur’s words trail off into moans, then sighs. 

Silence.

“Arthur? Are you there?”

“Y-yes. Here. Present and accounted for,” Arthur laughs weakly, sounding wrecked.

“How do you feel?”

“Fucking amazing. Fuck.”

Eames smiles wryly, feeling strangely elated. This Arthur fellow is diverting in the extreme. 

“Excellent. I’m pleased to hear it. Will you be able to sleep?”

“Mm. Feel like I’m almost there. Thank you. Fuck, that was good.” Arthur’s voice is slurring slightly. Eames would give anything to see what he looks like right now. 

“I’m kind of embarrassed, though,” Arthur adds quietly.

“What on earth for?” Eames asks gently.

“I, uh, that precome thing. It’s embarrassing. I’ve always been self-conscious about it.”

“So, you do get wet.”

“I - yeah. Really, um. A lot. It leaks through my clothes sometimes. Ugh, sorry, that’s gross.”

Eames chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh Arthur darling. That’s very much the opposite of ‘gross.’ That’s -” He makes a noise in the back of his throat, he can’t help it. Arthur’s cock, wet and leaking, shining with precome, is a delicious thing to contemplate. “I mean, feel free to be embarrassed by it, I enjoy a little humiliation in the right context, but what manner of idiots have you been letting fondle your jewels? There’s literally nothing sexier than a self-lubricating cock.”

Arthur is completely silent for a moment. “That - you like it?” 

“I do.” 

“Did you get off to it?” He breaks off with a little laugh. “It was good for me, was it good for you?” He asks in a self-mocking tone.

“Me?” Eames replies, eyebrows raising. Of course it was good for him, why would he have done it otherwise?

“Did you come?” Arthur sounds slightly exasperated now.

Eames hadn’t. He experiences a momentary and familiar urge to lie but he suppresses it. 

“No, my dear. That was all about you.”

“Oh.” The syllable, delivered tersely, is his only response. 

“You’re not used to someone taking care of you, are you?”

“I’m not used to someone fucking me without coming. Sorry if I bored you.” 

Eames eyebrows feel like they’re trying to climb off his head. “Pardon me?”

“It’s kind of creepy to just - just listen to someone jerking off and not, like, join in. What the fuck. I- I have to go.” Arthur hangs up before Eames can say another word.

Well. This isn’t how he imagined the conversation ending. Eames’ dick is still hard but he doesn’t know how he would take care of it, now.


	3. Chapter 3

Eames considers his next move, wondering why he’s stalled in Montreal when there is truly nothing for him in the city. He hates the weather and though he speaks French and enjoys the culture, he isn’t partial to the Quebecquois. It might be time to get some sun, some warmth. The other side of the world sounds fairly appealing at the moment. 

He isn’t expecting to hear from Arthur after that bizarre ending to their second phone call, and he doesn’t. For four days. And he’s sure as hell not calling him, though he scrolls through the incoming call list and stares at the number. Then his phone rings while he’s jerking off to his memory of their discussion about precome and Arthur’s (presumably gorgeous) leaking cock. He pauses mid-stroke to check the number and squeezes the base of his cock viciously when he realizes it’s his gentleman caller. 

“Hello,” he says in a neutral voice.

“Will. I’m sorry. Don’t hang up.”

“What? Why would I hang up on you?”

“I was a dick. You’ve been - you’ve been so - helpful, and I was an asshole. So I wanted to apologize.” Arthur sounds dreadful, voice strained and harsh. 

“That’s perfectly - well, I won’t say understandable, but I’m not upset.” That is a blatant lie, but it’s mostly one he’s telling to himself, so he lets it pass.

“Okay, good. I’m, um. Is this a good time?”

Eames smiles uncertainly, and lets it show in his voice. “A good time for what?”

“Yeah, fair question. Do you mind if we just talk? It’s not - that was fun, don’t get me wrong-”

“I’m very much in agreement that it was fun, but I’m up for a chat. I’m not doing much of anything right now,” Eames lies again. He pats his slowly-deflating erection. It will wait. 

“It’s noon, or well, like twelve thirty. Don’t you have work?”

“My work is flexible.”

“Okay, okay. Good. Mine too, sometimes. Not now though. Christ, this fucking job.”

“Sounds like a terrible burden. Is it worth it? Can you walk away?”

“I wish. I work for - with a friend of mine. Someone I, I guess I care about. So, no.”

“Ah. Is it-?” He leaves the unspoken question hanging, feeling unreasonably invested in the possible answer.

“What? Am I involved with him? Ha, no. No, he’s straight and I’m not interested like that. He’s just, he’s got a lot on his plate and I’m good at what I do, but shit has gone sideways the last few weeks and it’s on me to figure it out. There’s like, no respite.”

“Can you tell me the area of your expertise?”

“I’m in research.”

“Ah. Research. To be honest, that doesn’t sound like the kind of high stakes environment you’re describing.”

“There are immediate practical applications of my research. It’s complicated. I probably shouldn’t say more.”

Ah. Arthur was definitely in the underworld somehow. Could even be dreamshare. The thought sent a thrill of anxiety through him. “This friend of yours, though - does he appreciate you? It sounds like he’s expecting a lot.”

“Yeah. I don’t know. He’s got his head up his ass a lot, and a contractor flaked on us, and the client has insane expectations. It’s all kind of fubar at this point in time. I’m the one with the connections to get us out of the jam but things aren’t lining up. And we’re, uh, on a tight deadline.”

Speaking of tight, Arthur’s voice is getting tighter and tighter, growing taut like a bow string. Eames realizes that being asked about his job is not pressing the release valve.

“What do you like to do?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I realize that was an abrupt subject change. I just sensed that perhaps you don’t actually want to rehash all your work-related angst. Seems to be upsetting you, which is very much counterproductive to my goals and reputation. Tell me about yourself.”

Arthur breathes into the phone for the space of about ten seconds, then sighs. “I was alone a lot as a kid. So I read a lot. I basically had my nose buried in a book every minute of the day I wasn’t sleeping or forced to pretend to pay attention in class. I read while eating my breakfast. I read on the toilet.” He barks out a laugh. “That kind of kid.”

“What did you read?” Eames asks, getting more comfortable on his bed, laying down on his side with the pillow doubled up under his head. 

“Oh, anything lying around the house. Calvin and Hobbes. Chronicles of Narnia, Lord of the Rings. I got a box of old science fiction books from a yard sale - Larry Niven, Samuel Delaney, James Blish - that kind of thing, and plowed through it all in one summer. Are you sure this isn’t boring you?”

“On the contrary. I love James Blish, actually. Have you read a Case of Conscience?”

“Yeah! That was one of my favorites! The talking dinosaurs were so awesome. That party scene, man- I was only ten the first time I read it, I didn’t know what adults got up to. Blew my mind.”

“I always identified with the priest in that book. I actually thought about going into the priesthood.” 

“Would you like to receive my confession?” Arthur asks, a touch of humor in his voice.

“I would, very much.” Eames hesitates, pondering the fork in the road. Should he encourage this down the “naughty parishioner” path, or let Arthur take the lead and potentially get something meaningful off his chest? His dick had definite opinions on the matter. He told it to get stuffed.

“Ha. Well. I don’t have much to confess- Hm. That’s not true.” He pauses, inhales through his nose. “Sometimes I hate my friend.”

“The man you work with?”

“Yeah. Fuck. I can’t believe I said that.”

“Do you feel better for having said it out loud?”

“I do and I don’t. I don’t know. Yes.”

“Do you want to elaborate?”

“I, uh, yeah.” Arthur takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “He’s had a, a very rough time of it. To put it mildly. And I feel awful for him. It’s not, well, it’s not _not_ his fault, if you get me, but like, he couldn’t necessarily have done things differently. And now he’s a bit broken, I guess, and he keeps making stupid mistakes. Putting us in - in a bad place. I have to keep improvising, working around it. It’s a lot - a hell of a lot of pressure. But I signed on for this. I did it to myself, I could have walked away.”

“Could you have?”

“I mean, yes?” A long pause. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Because this is who you are.”

“Yeah. I - I don’t give up.”

“That sounds like a very good quality to possess.” Eames carefully doesn’t think about his own lack of that particular quality. 

“It gets me into trouble. And it means I end up staying too long, maybe in places I’m not needed anymore. I can’t tell. I like to be needed.”

“And he needs you.”

“It’s-” Arthur breaks off to laugh, a little bit manic. “This is the best therapy I’ve ever gotten. This is so weird. Thank you.”

“You’re thanking me for being weird?” Eames is amused, flattered.

“I’m thanking you for being you.”

Eames’s sense of feeling flattered shifts into something else, a bloom of recognition deep within his chest. He shakes it off - he’s getting too isolated here in Montreal, he needs to get out more. Maybe go somewhere else. Meet some friends. 

“That’s not necessary, but. You’re welcome,” he says softly, feeling ridiculous. “I’m not sure I’m as entertaining as advertised but you seem to be deriving some benefit.”

“What’s in this for you?”

“Well, I’m a hideous recluse with a dozen communicable diseases and an insane wife in the attic, so I don’t have a lot of social outlets.”

Arthur laughs. “No, really. Do you- how many people call you like this? Is this like, your hobby?”

“Honestly, Arthur, this is the first time I’ve ever done this.” Eames can’t believe it but a blush is rising up his neck and cheeks.

“Really.” 

“Truly.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why so?”

“Well. You’re good at it. All of it.” Arthur’s voice has gone smoky, suggestive. It’s out of the blue but Eames’ cock is already half hard and doesn’t care about transitions or logic.

“All of what,” he asks without asking. He knows.

“I think I might get out of these clothes. It’s even hotter here than usual tonight. It rained earlier and the air is muggy.” Arthur puts down the phone and there are rustling sounds that make Eames hot all over. He can’t shake the feeling that he knows what Arthur looks like. A terrible idea forms in his mind.

“Hi,” Arthur says shyly, when he picks the phone back up. 

“Hi yourself. Are you more comfortable now?” Eames’ voice has shifted into what he’s come to think of as HMV, even though he’s not giving any commands.

“I am. I’m, uh. Ready. If that’s okay.”

“Lovely. I have an idea, darling, but it might take awhile. You have time?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Arthur sounds trusting, receptive. Eames is a little in love with his voice.

“Run your hands up and down your body. Tell me what it feels like.”

There’s an interval in which Eames allows his imagination to run wild, allows himself to see his own hands dragging along a smooth, firm stomach, watching the muscles under the skin shift in response to his caress. He closes his eyes and waits for Arthur. 

“Mmmm. It feels like rain on my skin. It’s giving me goosebumps.”

“Use more pressure. Feel the muscles under the skin.”

“It feels … it feels like someone else is touching me.”

His voice comes out rough and low. “I’m touching you.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Yes.”

Eames’ heart is racing. “Are you hard?”

“Yes.” A shuddering exhalation.

“Are you wet?” Eames’ cock is, it’s already got a smeared drop of come in the slit as he draws it out of his pants. 

“Mmmmyes,” Arthur sounds so turned on, a bit mindless. Perfect. That’s the goal, after all.

“Spread it all over yourself, get your cock wet.” Eames thrusts up into his hand. “Is it nice and slippery, Arthur?”

“Nnnggh. Yeah,” he says, breathless.

“Tell me what your precome tastes like.”

“It-” Arthur breaks off and Eames can just barely hear the sound of a tongue licking, it’s so faint as to be torturously suggestive. “It’s bitter and sweet at the same time. Salty.”

Eames’ mouth waters. “Put your hand on your cock and let me jerk you off.”

“I’m - you’re touching it. It feels good.”

“My hand is taking your cock in a firm grip, hm?”

“Yes, oohhh, that’s good,” Arthur purrs.

“I’m stroking you up and down, up and down, like this, over and over. I squeeze at the crown, can you feel that?” His voice is a rumble now, he’s never heard himself like this. His cock is hard enough to punch through steel, he fists it once but has to stop lest he go off.

“I’m going to take you to the edge, Arthur, but you have to let me know where the edge is. Can you do that?”

“I -- think so. I’m close already,” he pants, and Eames can hear the slap of skin on skin. His cock leaps.

“Stop.”

“What?” Arthur sounds strained, disbelief warring with frustration. 

“I’m taking my hand away.”

“Why?” Arthur sounds pained, so frustrated that Eames knows he’s taken the direction.

“It’s all for a good cause,” Eames says.

“Can I - can you touch me again?”

“Not yet, my pet. Breathe deep, breathe into the feeling.”

Arthur takes a long, deep breath which shudders violently on the exhale.

“You’re doing so well, Arthur. You’re so biddable. I like that, very much. I wish I could see you,” Eames almost drops the phone as the words come out of his mouth. 

“I -- you can. You can see me. I’ll, hold on, I’ll just---”

Eames grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to admit that this is taking things too far; of course it isn’t too far, he’s an adult. People send dick pics all the time. It’s no big deal. He’s sent his fair share, no lie, and received them too. Why this is affecting him the way it is is hard to parse, and he doesn’t have time as his phone dings. 

“Arthur, are you still hard?” 

“Check your phone and see,” Arthur says, sounding terrified but proud. 

Eames thumbs the message icon, closing his eyes and opening them to the sight of a gorgeous, glistening cock; cut, stiff, plenty thick, with graceful fingers wrapped around the base. The knowledge that the wetness is all from Arthur, and all courtesy his words, his voice - he presses the heel of his palm into the base of his own cock to slow the inevitable. His breath leaves him in a rush. He puts the phone down reluctantly, still staring at the picture.

“That is a lovely cock, Arthur. It’s irresistible, darling, truly. I’m going to take it in my hand again, get a nice firm grip on it.”

Arthur lets out a shaky breath, then says, “Oh god, that feels good. I’m so close, fuck.”

“Oh, that’s no good. Hold tight, Arthur, I’m squeezing around the base. Tell me.”

“You - Oh! Yes, that worked. God damn it.” Arthur is panting and sounds pained. Eames smiles, as he knows the feeling. But he also knows it’s worth it.

“Good boy. Now I’m skimming up the length of your gorgeous cock with my fingertips, just the lightest of touches.”

Arthur whines. 

“Patience, darling. All good things in due time. I’m curling my fingers around it, loosely. You’re so hard, my pet.”

“I- I am. I’m so hard, Will. Please touch me harder, _please_.”

Eames swallows. He’s had his fair share of phone sex, of course. This should be nothing new. But something about Arthur’s deep voice, vulnerable and mysterious, so open and trusting, just lights him up. 

“My grip tightens and I slide my fist up and down in firm strokes. You like that, hm?”

“Ah… yesssss...oh fuck, yes,” Arthur says. 

“Twist on the upstroke,” Eames commands, forgetting that they’re pretending it’s him touching Arthur. 

“Fuck! Oh I’m com-” Arthur cries and Eames quickly barks, “Stop. I’m taking my hand away.”

The most delicious noise of primal frustration comes through the line. Arthur is panting like he’s running a marathon, and in a way he is. 

“Breathe, my dear. Deeply. Feel everything, let it sink into your bones. Tell me.”

“I- oh fuck - please please let me - touch me again, Will. Please,” Arthur says, voice strained. He sounds like he’s about to cry. Eames can almost see him, head thrown back, eyes clenched shut, muscles cording in his neck. The picture of desperation. 

“Tell me.”

“I’m shaking all over. I want to come so bad. I- I’m hot, like I’m on fire and my thighs won’t stop quivering. I can feel it building everywhere, oh god I want to come, I want to come,” Arthur trails off into a whine and Eames can’t take it anymore, either.

“I’m touching you again,” he says and as the words leave his mouth Arthur shouts. 

“Oh fuck! Oh god, Will, fuuuuuuuck….” he groans and then loses the phone. Eames can hear the distant sounds of a hand moving frantically on wet hard flesh and then a pause as he imagines jets of come painting Arthur’s groin and chest. 

“I’m going to come,” he says, deliberately letting Arthur know that he’s not in this alone.

“Give me- oh, say something Arthur,” Eames says as his hand flies over his cock.

“I think you might have the sexiest voice anyone has ever heard,” Arthur says, shakily.

Eames comes, garbling a long string of nonsense that he tries to muffle in a pillow. A minute passes before he trusts himself to speak.

“Many thanks, Arthur. I think you may be the sexiest person I’ve ever had the pleasure to fuck over the phone.” 

Arthur laughs weakly. “I feel like I should pay you.”

Eames doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s frozen for a second.

“Oh fuck, I didn’t mean it like that. Fuck. I just meant,” he pauses, obviously trying to find words to explain what he’d meant. 

“It’s fine, Arthur. I’d only take your money and spend it on lavish presents for you, to compensate you for the hours of entertainment you’re providing to a lonely, disfigured hermit.”

Arthur laughs again, sounding more himself this time. “Well in that case, I’ll be wiring $50,000 to your bank immediately."

“High flier, are we? Modesty is a virtue, my dear.”

After a few more rounds of thanks that only serve to make Eames feel worse, they part company. Eames cleans himself off, frowning.


	4. Chapter 4

Eames’ sudden hankering for warmer climes appears to have sent a message to the universe, because he gets a call to join a team with a job in progress in Bangkok that needs an emergency replacement for their forger. The job sounds like it’s going to be a nightmare and he always hates being called in at the last minute, but the money is on target and will come in quite useful at the moment. 

His decision to accept is mostly based on his bank account and relative boredom, but he acknowledges that the fact that Bangkok is within the timezone that Arthur appears to inhabit might have something to do with it, as well. 

He’s making a reservation for a flight out when his phone rings.

“Arthur,” he purrs, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he types a new date range in. “How can I help you tonight?”

“Hi, Will. Is this a good time?” Arthur asks. He sounds distracted, nervy.

“As good as any, my dear. What seems to be the matter?”

“This fucking job. I feel stupid for letting myself get roped in when I knew the architect was a fuck-up.”

“Are you involved in real estate?” Eames asks smoothly. 

“Shit. Yes. Let’s go with that.”

“So, that’s a no.”

“That’s a - it doesn’t matter. Yeah, we’re building a huge shopping mall and things just keep going haywire. I’m under so much fucking pressure.”

“Do you need release again, pet? It’s very much my pleasure,” Eames says, a vague feeling of unease permeating the sensual interest flooding his veins. 

“I do. Yes. Please,” Arthur says, sounding more relaxed with every word. Eames, who loves to feel indispensable as long as he can’t be held accountable, allows himself to be warmed by Arthur’s reliance on him.

Eames hums thoughtfully and says, “You’re naked, yes?” 

“Mmhm,” Arthur says. “Completely.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Are you hard?”

“Mostly. Your voice is getting me there.”

“Ah, Arthur, your flattery is most appreciated. If I were there, I’d take you in my mouth until you were nice and lovely and hard. Your delicious cock selfie is my phone’s wallpaper now.”

Arthur laughs. “I’m hard now, thanks. I’m touching myself.”

“Perfect. I’m touching myself, too.”

A soft huff of air from Arthur; Eames can tell he wasn’t expecting that. 

“I want you to get some of that lovely precome all over your cock. Can you do that?”

Arthur is breathing harder now, a low moan skating at the edge of his exhalations. “Yeah, it’s getting wet now. Mmmm, it feels good when I stroke it up and down.”

“I bet you look intoxicating, cock glistening and slick with your own juice.” Eames tugs at his own cock, hips rising into the stroke. “Do you have lube?”

“I -- I don’t need it, I’m wet enough from--”

“Not for that.”

“Oh.” Arthur is still breathing hard. “Oh, yeah. Yes.”

“Get it. Open it. Get some on my fingers.” 

“Yes,” he says as he is clearly reaching across to wherever the lube is, uncapping it, following directions. 

“Excellent. Now I need you to get up on your knees. Can you do that for me?” Eames’ cock leaps at the thought of where he’s going with this.

Arthur doesn’t answer but Eames hears a telltale squeak of bedsprings and muffled sounds that signal his compliance with the request. 

“I’m going to put my fingers in your arse, one at a time. Have you done this before?”

“Yy-yes, just a few times,” Arthur says shakily. 

“Lovely. I’m putting the index finger of my -” he takes a stab and assumes Arthur’s a southpaw so he’ll want that hand to wank- “right hand up to your gorgeous little hole. How does that feel?”

“Mmmmm. You- you’re just touching it. Your finger is wet with lube. I want it to - to push in.”

Eames shudders out a breath. “I’m breaching you, up to the knuckle, moving in and out, getting you nice and warmed up. Tell me.”

“I like it,” Arthur murmurs. “More.”

“I slide my finger all the way in, pump it in and out. You feel so tight, but you’re starting to relax into it.” He pumps his fist over his cock once, twice, no more. He’s going to last for this.

“Yeah, I- oh,” Arthur moans, breath coming faster, harder. “I love it. It’s so good.”

“Good, darling. You’re doing so well. I’m going to put another finger in now. Are you ready?”

“Nnngh, uh-huh, yes, I want it. Oooohhh fffuck, yes,” and Eames can tell he’s slid another of his fingers alongside the first, widening the intrusion, loosening his hole. 

“Fuck your arse on my fingers, Arthur,” he says, rough and low. He’s pulling hard at his cock now, hand slipping over the top over and over, finding himself tempted to send his own picture to show Arthur what he does to him. 

“Ah, fuck, Will - this is- I’ve never…” he breaks off and his stuttered words dissolve into whimpers. It sounds like he’s falling apart and Eames knows that he would make the most delicious bottom, taking the full measure of Eames’ cock with gratitude and grace.

Eames isn’t going to last much longer. He listens to Arthur’s incredible noises, hand flying over his cock, hips lifting off the bed and jerking into it spastically. It’s hard to believe he doesn’t know what the man on the other end of the phone looks like - except for his prick, his hand and a tiny amount of thigh. He feels like he knows him inside and out. 

“Darling, come for me.”

He hears a full throated cry and his own orgasm sweeps up from the base of his spine up through his cock, swamping his conscious thought and whiting out his vision. 

After a few seconds he hears Arthur breathing hard, and then- “Fucking hell, Will.”

“Did you like it, Arthur?” Eames murmurs, barely able to make his mouth work.

“I wish I could-- would you take a picture of yourself for me?”

Eames wants to. Heaven knows he wants to. But there’s too much at risk. He’s almost certain by now that Arthur is in dreamshare. Which means they’re going to meet, sooner or later. Best to reduce the impact as much as possible. 

“Best not, darling. Hideous recluse and all that.” He keeps his tone light. 

“I refuse to believe that,” Arthur says, voice completely fucked out. “That was the best orgasm I’ve ever had.”

“Likewise, my dear.” He pauses, considers. “Would you like my cock next time?”

There is total and complete silence on the other end. Unease settles over him.

“How would we do that?” Arthur asks carefully. “We’re across the planet from each other, unless you’ve changed timezones.”

Eames feels elated, flushed at the implication that Arthur is contemplating them meeting for this in person, even though it’s a terrible idea. He toys with the idea of telling Arthur that he’s about to change timezones, but he pauses too long and Arthur continues.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

The swirling emotion that had been sliding through his veins flattens and collapses. “Of course. I didn’t mean, that is to say. There are other ways.” He can rescue this. He wasn’t thinking of meeting, anyway - even though it might soon be feasible. 

“Are there any specialty shops in your immediate vicinity? For the purchase of, shall we say, intimate proxies?” He lets his voice go liquid with sleazy innuendo, and it does the trick.

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Yes. I could get -that. For next time.” The penny dropped and Arthur is into the idea. 

“Excellent. Are you sleepy?”

“No, not really. That was incredible, by the way.”

“The feeling is mutual. Tell me something more about yourself.”

“You mean, other than that I like sci-fi and have conflicting feelings about my closest friend?” Arthur laughs, sounding relaxed and open.

“What do you enjoy about your job? Why do you do it?”

“I’m good at it. I’ve always been observant, organized. I can get things done when other people can’t, when they give up.”

“Is that satisfying to you?”

“Yes, mostly. Right now, no. That’s why I’m calling you I guess. Sometimes it gets old, being the one focused on everyone else.”

“You’d like to have someone focused on you.”

Arthur laughs, a little derisively. “Um, no. That makes me very uncomfortable.” 

“Does it?” Eames says, letting the doubt creep into his voice. 

“Normally. This is different. It’s probably because you can’t see me.”

“I refuse to believe you’re anything other than stunningly gorgeous.’

Arthur snickers. “I’m not hideous, unlike some people I could mention.” Eames laughs. “But I’m just an average skinny, mostly-white guy with brown eyes and hair. It’s not my appearance that makes me like this, and it’s not that I’m shy. I just have a hard time letting go. Letting people get to know me. I guess you could say I have walls up. That’s what my therapist told me, anyway.”

“You have a therapist? Why aren’t you calling her?” Eames is kicking himself as the words leave his mouth, but he is genuinely curious and also concerned for Arthur. 

“She never dominated me and gave me the orgasms of a lifetime.” Arthur sounds wry, but Eames sees it as the deflection it is.

“Well, her loss, darling. But-”

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur’s demeanor shifts abruptly. “I should have called her, I know that. I just- didn’t. I’m probably doing that thing where it’s just easier to talk to people who don’t know me, don’t know how fucked up I am. I feel like I keep a lid on it, I keep it so close to my chest, but eventually people find out, and…”

“And they leave.”

“Yeah.”

“And you blame yourself.”

“Well, who else is there to blame?” Arthur laughs defeatedly. He sounds so sad. Eames wants to - god, there are too many things Eames wants to do. This might be getting out of hand. There’s a long pause.

“What about you?” Arthur finally asks. “I don’t know anything about you at all.” Eames must be imagining the trace of wistfulness he hears. There’s nothing to know about him that will do Arthur any good at all.

“What would you like to know?” Eames allows Arthur to redirect, he reckons it’s only fair play.

“Well, um. What do you like to do?”

Eames hesitates. “I like people. I like to get to know them, find out what motivates them, inspires them. I suppose you could say I’m a student of human nature.”

“So, you get inside people’s heads.” Arthur doesn’t sound judgmental.

“I guess that’s an accurate description.” A beat. “Have I gotten inside your head, Arthur?”

“Yes,” Arthur says simply. 

Eames takes a long slow breath through his nose. He’s charmed by Arthur’s admission, and slightly overwhelmed. 

“Is that a good thing?” he asks.

“It’s not a place most people get to go,” he says huskily. “It’s nice to have company though.”

Eames smiles. 

“Tell me more about yourself,” Arthur says dreamily.

“I’m - I’m not sure what to say,” Eames says, feeling caught out. He’s usually much more smooth than this, but as always with Arthur, he’s in the grip of an unfamiliar desire to be honest. 

“What was your childhood like?”

“Well,” Eames says slowly. “It was lonely, like yours, I suppose. My parents traveled a lot and I was in the care of nannies quite a bit. But instead of reading, I mostly watched. People, that is. We would go to parks and I would study the people there, the other children, their parents or siblings. I would make up stories in my head about what their lives were like.”

“And what were their lives like?”

“Oh, full of intrigue and adventure,” Eames laughs. “The opposite of mine. My conviction that everyone’s lives were so much more compelling than mine may have led me to revolt as I got older. Mine was the very definition of a misspent youth.” He never talks about those years with anyone, even this glancing reference has him feeling off-balance and exposed. 

“Were you- did you get into trouble?” Arthur sounds concerned. 

“Quite,” Eames says, wanting to wrap up the conversation. “It turns out that adventure is overrated,” he continues, struck by the truth of it as the words slip past his lips. He’s tiring of the peripatetic lifestyle of dreamshare. A new team every few months, no continuity or meaningful camaraderie, just a continually shifting cast of temporary companions. 

“I think it depends on the kinds of adventures you’re having,” Arthur replies. “Or who you’re having them with.”

“Indeed it does, Arthur,” Eames says.


	5. Chapter 5

Eames is on a plane to Bangkok, thinking of the last time he was there, with a man who didn’t really want to be with him but wanted to fuck him all the same. It was a formative experience.

He studies the forge target on the plane, listening to the sound file on his phone and then using the tiny bathroom for a bit of practice. Australian accents are deceptively easy to mimic, the broad vowel sounds disguising the finer nuances to non-natives. Back in his seat, Eames finds himself wondering if Arthur’s tried to call while he’s been out of cell range. It doesn’t matter, since he wouldn’t be able to return the call, but if he’d left a message, it might be nice to hear his voice.

Eames arrives at Don Mueang airport sweaty and disheveled and irritated to find no messages waiting on his phone. He takes the first taxi in the line outside, not caring that he is being viciously fleeced, and has the driver take him to The Imperial Tara. Once inside, he makes his way to his room and flings himself on the bed, flipping on the tv to watch some terrible movie on Starz. He passes out before he’s even taken a sip of the Carlsberg he’d taken from the minibar.

In the morning, Eames showers and gets ready to meet up with Cobb and his team. He mostly knows Cobb through reputation, having met the man only once before. He had struck Eames as a bit of a diva, but Eames has heard that he’d had some personal tragedy lately and is determined to keep his judgements to himself. 

He takes the Skytrain to the Phrom Phong stop, cursing the repetitive platform music that he knows from prior experience will be stuck in his head the entire trip. Hopefully once this is over he can take that trip to Cambodia he was half-arsedly planning before he got the call. He’ll admit that it has occurred to him that it’s not out of the realm of possibility that Arthur might be the point that Cobb works with- he cuts off that train of thought. Nonproductive speculation is not a habit of his. 

Eames stops at a street vendor for a plastic bag of bubble tea and some fried bananas, wolfing them down efficiently. Then he steps into the alleyway leading to the basement of the furniture store where the team is evidently headquartered. Coming down the rickety wooden stairs into a low-lit concrete bunker-style room, it takes his eyes a moment to adjust. There are pools of light cast by several light fixtures, highlighting various members of the team. 

At one table, a small woman with a headscarf is surrounded by an array of equipment and bottles- the chemist, Sadiyah. At another, a loomingly tall Scandinavian-looking fellow fiddles distractedly with an enormous, unwieldy model. The replacement architect, taking Nash’s position after he evidently got himself arrested. And here is Eames, taking the forger’s position after she contracted a vicious skin infection from a massage parlor. 

He sees Cobb at the far end of the enormous room and makes his way over. As he walks past the others, nodding diffidently at them, he notices a slender person with his back turned, standing at a long table laden with surveillance equipment. The point, most likely.

Cobb turns at his approach and comes over to him with his hand outstretched. “Eames. Thank you. Did you have time to review the materials we sent?”

“I did,” Eames says. “We’re on a tight timeline, yes?”

“We were, but now things have stalled again while we wait for the client to narrow his field of inquiry. To say that this job is frustrating is to put it mildly, I’m afraid. Still, gives you time to practice the forge. Let me introduce you to the team.”

“I’ve met most of them previously, actually,” Eames says, glancing around as Cobb walks off in the direction of the table with the surveillance equipment. He pulls out his cell to check his messages—none— and when he looks up, he finds that Cobb has ushered over a sleek, elegantly handsome man and stood him in front of Eames. Cobb says, “This is our point man.” Then he gestures to Eames and says, “And this is our forger.”

“Arthur Levine, good to meet you.” The man holds out his hand, a neutral expression on his face.

Eames feels his mouth almost fall open, places an imaginary hand under his jaw to keep it closed. What the fuckity fuck, this is Arthur. This is _his_ Arthur, the voice, the- well, obviously the name - but also the body, the- the eyes - dear Christ, this is him. This is _him._

He hasn’t said anything and Arthur is cocking his head slightly as his hand drops to his side.

“Eames,” he says, clipping the vowels. The single syllable is perhaps short enough to disguise his accent, but he still sees Arthur’s eyes narrow. A rush of terror lights up all his nerves. He feels like he might spontaneously combust.

“And do you have a first name, Mr. Eames?”

“Yes, rude of me not to say, sorry.” Eames pauses again. “Will. Will Eames,” he says, extending his hand belatedly. Arthur doesn’t take it. Instead his face blanches dangerously; he looks like he may faint. 

“I didn’t know your name was Will,” Cobb says, chuckling. “I’ve just been calling you Eames.” 

“I go by my last name, mostly. Only my very closest friends call me Will,” he explains, glancing at Arthur, who is looking fixedly at the door.

“Nice to meet you. Excuse me. I have to go do- I’ll be right back, Cobb,” Arthur says as he barrels towards the door.

Cobb looks after him, squinting, then peers at Eames. “You guys know each other?” he asks.

“No, we’ve never met.” The partial lie slips out so easily and it feels like poison on his lips.

Cobb shrugs and says, “You’ll like him. He’s the best at what he does.” Then he drags over a stray whiteboard and starts outlining the timing and objective of Eames’ forge. Eames tries to look invested in the rundown, but his mind can’t stop worrying at the edges of the tremendous mystery of Arthur’s reaction. What did it mean, that he’d run off like that? Hopefully he’s just overwhelmed, as Eames is, to suddenly confront the actual human on the other end of their shockingly intimate conversations. It would be enough to throw anyone off. 

But he had seemed appalled. Horrified. Eames’ stomach does a slow roll into mild nausea.

He doesn’t see Arthur again until lunchtime, at which point he returns with a couple of sacks full of, what else, Thai food. He sets them out on a central table and people drift over on their own to retrieve some food. Arthur himself doesn’t eat anything; he returns to his table, back firmly turned away from Eames where he’s eating a delicious curry with lotus. 

Eames chats about the job with the chemist and Soren, the architect. Once they’ve ascertained that neither Arthur nor Cobb are within earshot, they let loose with tales of the outlandish bad luck dogging the job. Then Sadiyah has the good grace to look sheepish, as though she’s twigged that perhaps lamenting the myriad setbacks are not a great welcoming tactic for a new team member. “It’s not that bad,” she finishes lamely. “Arthur worked really hard to keep us on track.”

“Yes, and Cobb was lucky to find you,” Soren adds diplomatically. “I’ve heard good things about your work from Yusuf in Kenya.”

Eames perks up. “Ah, Yusuf. Worked with him, have you? He’s an interesting sort.” They gossip about various mutually-known dreamshare professionals while Eames keeps one eye on Arthur’s back, trying to form some sort of plan.

An hour later, Cobb is pacing the floor having a muttered conversation on his cell phone while Soren labors over his gigantic model of the Emporium and Sadiyah tweaks the compound. Eames reviews the all-too-brief video clips of his forge until his eyes glaze over. He decides to approach Arthur under the guise of asking to use the PASIV for in-dream practice. He actually does want to use it, though he doesn’t think he needs it per se, this forge is a dawdle, but it provides the ideal excuse to talk to the point.

He strolls over to the table of surveillance equipment, at which Arthur has deconstructed some incredibly complex camera array. He intentionally brushes against a metal chair on his way over and clears his throat, giving fair warning of his approach. Arthur stiffens as though he knows just who is coming up behind him. 

Eames stops at the table, two feet away from where Arthur stands, smooth youthful face fixed in a scowl, hands resting motionless on the surface of the table. Eames opens his mouth to speak but before he can make a sound, Arthur says under his breath, “I can’t.” 

Eames swallows hard and ventures, “Can’t what, Arthur?” He can’t help it, his voice slips into an intimate tone on his name, it’s just second nature by now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to even hear the name Arthur without getting at least half hard. 

“I can’t,” Arthur says firmly, hands springing suddenly into motion to seize on a camera mounting. It’s clear that with those two repeated words, Arthur has closed off any possibility of them, shut down any chance of exploration or fulfillment. 

“Alright,” Eames says, realizing that this reaction was entirely predictable from everything Arthur had revealed on the phone. It’s only that Eames had no cause to predict it, as he had no idea that he would be in this position. Well, that’s an overstatement. He’d had some idea, but it was more of a hope than a premonition, and along with the hope went some florid fantasies of consummation that he now realizes were highly unrealistic. 

“I was wondering,” he pauses fractionally and sees how Arthur tenses, “whether I could use the PASIV for practice with the forge.” 

“Help yourself, it’s over there,” Arthur gestures to the left without raising his eyes or looking over to Eames. Eames nods and walks away, feeling like he’s in someone else’s shoddy dream. He would never dream himself into a situation this self-defeating and restrictive. 

Eames locates the PASIV and a reclining lawn chair, settles himself down and plugs in, deliberately facing his soon-to-be-vulnerable self towards the table at which Arthur remains pointedly stationed. He sets the timer for five minutes, thinks about it, then resets for fifteen. He could use some time to think about what’s happening here. 

In his own private dreamspace, he usually finds himself in a pleasantly wild garden near a country manor. Today he’s in the hotel room in Montreal, the room in which he’d gotten his first call from Arthur. He stands in front of the suite’s full length mirror, shifts into the forge, says a couple stock phrases in his Australian accent. He’s as good as he needs to be. He drops the forge and looks closely at himself. He’s put on some weight lately and feels a little self-conscious about it. It mostly shows up in his neck and waist, and he knows his shoulders and legs are sturdy enough to make up for a bit extra, but he prefers to be leaner. 

Arthur. What does Arthur like? Maybe he’s misreading this altogether. Maybe Arthur just doesn’t find him attractive in person and that’s why he “can’t.” The thought is deeply unpleasant. Eames isn’t used to turning people off, but he’s getting on in years. Perhaps Arthur had a different idea of the person behind the smooth voice - perhaps he imagined a Ben Whishaw type more like himself. 

God, Arthur is perfect. Eames is taken aback at how prescient he’d been in envisioning Arthur’s appearance. Slender strength and smooth skin, penetrating yet soft eyes, elegant hands. Hair scraped severely back, begging to be carded through and undone. Eames feels his cock stirring and cuts off that train of thought. It makes him feel a bit sick to contemplate that the attraction may be one-sided in person. 

Eames sits hunched on the side of the king sized bed with his forearms on his thighs and bows his head. The only thing to do is play this Arthur’s way. He won’t humiliate himself, nor will he offend Arthur, by pushing the issue. If the attraction isn’t there for him, pressure isn’t going to change that. 

He rubs his eyes and groans. He replays Arthur’s body language when he’d approached him, the way he’d held himself stiff against an imagined incursion on his space. Surely, if it was a simple matter of “it’s not you, it’s me,” he wouldn’t have seemed so tortured. Eames stands up and paces. It had to be his first instinct that was correct: he just needs time. Eames has to show him that he’s to be trusted.

Which is a crock, because Eames is not to be trusted, and once Arthur starts asking around about him, he’ll learn the scuttlebutt on the street about Eames; that he’s a wild card, a slippery fish, with an opportunistic streak a mile wide. 

He opens his eyes to find Arthur talking to Cobb several feet away, clearly stopped by Cobb on his way somewhere else, trying not to look at Eames. Getting up, Eames brushes past them, taking care to come as close to Arthur as possible without touching him. Arthur flinches away from the near miss but his eyes catch on Eames’ gaze for a split second as he moves past.

“Eames!” Cobb calls, and Eames stops and pivots, raising an eyebrow. “New information. Your assignment has changed slightly.”

“Slightly?” Eames lets his other eyebrow raise to meet the first. 

“Well, entirely, as it turns out.” Cobb runs a hand through his hair, looking appropriately sheepish.

“Excellent. Who am I to be now?”

“Arthur will give you the rundown. I’ve got to head out to a meeting with the client.” With that and a brief nod, Cobb heads briskly towards the stairs. 

Arthur stares at a point in the near distance, just past Eames’ shoulder. His jaw is held tightly, a muscle just barely twitching in it. 

“Well. Best get on with it, then,” Eames says blandly, hoping to ease Arthur out of his tension by signaling that he’ll play along and pretend that they’ve just met for the first time. 

“Yeah. Come over here and we’ll go over the new file.” Arthur strides off without checking that Eames is following him. He comes to a stop at a desk with three laptops on it, flips open two of them, then stalks over to the whiteboard, pulling it over on screeching wheels with a dramatic lack of concern about the noise. Eames pulls over a chair and sits back, waiting. 

“So, we only have a few pictures and one surveillance video to work from right now. This is the mark’s closest friend, who is also his cousin and his business partner. We were going to take an indirect approach with the fiancee, but she’s out of the picture now, apparently.” Arthur sounds like she’s personally insulted him by having her engagement broken off. 

“You’re probably going to have to go out in the field a bit. I’m trying to get you credentials and access to get closer to the forge, which unfortunately means getting closer to the mark as well. Thank god you won’t look like this when you go under.” Arthur flaps his hand at him, then cuts him a look that flickers restlessly over Eames’ body.

“That’s fine, and actually, I can get the credentials sorted myself. That’s within my wheelhouse.”

“Right, you’re a forger,” Arthur says, putting an meaningful stress on the word. Like it’s an insult and explanation rolled into one.

“In all senses,” Eames says, feeling regret well up in him. Which is unheard of and uncalled for. Speaking of called for, he’s not the one who called for Arthur. Just what kind of person did Arthur think he was going to get ahold of, late at night, across continents, without formal introduction - just a number on a scrap of paper? Jesus Christ. 

“So, here are the files,” Arthur says flatly, mousing over a directory on the screen. “Take your time, this fucking job will probably never end.” With that, he turns on his heel and walks directly up the stairs and presumably out of the building. Eames watches him go, noting distantly how his suit fits to a tee, how clean are the lines of his body. Arthur doesn’t return to the work site that day, or the next.


	6. Chapter 6

Eames gets his credentials done up and emails Arthur to let him know they’re on his desk. The next day, he’s set up on a job in close quarters with Isara Vongkusolkit, pushing phony paperwork and sitting in pointless meetings, the very life he enlisted to avoid. Then, once his working day at the office concludes, he pulls a partial nightshift downloading what he’s learned and practicing the forge. Vongkulsokit matriculated at the University of Northern California so he speaks English well but Eames’ Thai accent could use a lot of work. It’s a convenient thing that, evidently, the dream is to take place at a board meeting at which English will be de rigeur. 

He pushes himself away from the desk he’s been slumped at for hours. Arthur was in the basement when he arrived at five-thirty, but didn’t come near him, much less speak to him, and left without a glance in his direction at eight. It’s the most he’s seen of him since that first day on the job.

At eight-thirty, Eames leaves Sadiyah by herself in the underworld gloom of the basement and goes upstairs, stepping gratefully into the sewer-and-diesel smell of the muggy evening. A quick streetside meal and an hour at the gym will get him back in God’s good graces and then he might have a looksee at Patpong, ‘round the gay bars. Heaven knows he’s got some energy to work off, if he can bring himself to do it.

He scarfs some duck soup at a hole-in-the-wall cafe. A trip on the Skytrain later, he’s at the Imperial Tara’s gym, working up a good sweat then returning to his room to shower. As he’s drying off, he hears his phone ringing and thinks to himself that it better not be Cobb, changing the forge’s identity again. Because if he does that, Eames is walking.

He picks up without checking the screen, says, “Hello.”

There is silence on the other end for the space of a few seconds. Eames pulls the phone away to see if the call is connected and sees “Arthur” on the screen. What in buggering fuck.

“Arthur?”

He hears a huff of breath, and then, “Will?” 

Eames almost hangs up, but thinks better of it. He is astonished at this turn, he would never have guessed that Arthur might be this deeply conflicted. In a split second he decides to play along. 

“Arthur,” he says, voice a shade warmer than he’s actually feeling. “What can I do for you this evening?”

“Oh, I- uh... Can we talk?”

“By all means. What would you like to talk about?” Try as he might, Eames is not able to entirely keep a knowing edge out of his tone. 

“This is a bad idea. I’m sorry. I just was really enjoying this, uh, thing with you and I- but no. That’s stupid, obviously. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again.” 

“Arthur. Stop. It’s fine,” he lies and wonders when he’ll stop shooting himself compulsively in the foot. “Let’s just put aside our quotidian worries and chat like old times. Yes?” 

Arthur heaves a long sigh. “Yes. Thank you,” he says breathily, and Eames can’t help but feel like he’s made the right choice, even though he’s having a hard time imagining how they’re going to navigate the minefield they’re currently sowing. Several seconds pass.

“So did you want to talk, or...?” He shouldn’t leave the opening, but he’s really quite wound up and it appears that he’s developed something of an automatic physical response to Arthur’s voice.

As it turns out, Arthur doesn’t want to just talk. Arthur needs the same thing from Eames that he has needed on each of the other occasions they’ve conversed on the phone. As on the other occasions, Arthur is delicious in his ability to take direction, in his hunger for it, leaving Eames aching and wanting more. 

The fact that he now knows exactly what Arthur looks like, the particular texture of his skin and the proud way he holds his body, the eloquent swagger of his slender limbs, heightens the experience by an order of magnitude. Arthur is out of the realm of idle aural-assisted fantasy - he’s real, he’s in the world, he’s in the same city. There is a hotel room within 10 minutes’ motorbike ride of Eames’ current location that contains Arthur’s sated, sweaty body and that makes all the difference. He comes like a freight train when Arthur does, but his cock is still hard afterward. He doesn’t think it’s possible to sate it completely, not now that he knows exactly how appealing Arthur truly is.

Eames gets in bed and finds that he can’t sleep. This is by far the most fucked up interpersonal situation he’s been in in years. His watchword is simplicity where liaisons are concerned. He’s well aware of his need for clear boundaries and his propensity for overstepping them the moment the lines are blurred.

His eyes finally fall shut as he makes the beginnings of a plan to deal with Arthur. Maintaining a polite distance hasn’t helped so far, all it’s done is make it easier for Arthur to avoid him. 

\----

 

His plan is getting off to a rough start, as come evening time and his practice session in the headquarters, Arthur refuses to look at him. He feels his hackles rise in spite of himself and his provocateur self rises with them. Eames finds himself wanting to press the issue, force Arthur to confront his physical reality. Mostly, though, he just wants to get closer to him, see what he smells like, see what he feels like under those pristine suits he wears. 

Arthur is sitting in front of his habitual two laptops when his cell rings. Eames watches as he answers, watches the crisp way he barks a greeting, watches as his posture goes from confident to stiff, tense. Arthur stands up and clearly utters a string of profanity that Eames can only hear part of from where he sits. Then he sits again, typing furiously on one laptop and then the other while simultaneously making notes in a moleskin. He puts the phone down almost as an afterthought, completely absorbed in tackling whatever new problem has arisen. 

Eames gets up and wanders over, padding over on his silent cat feet, a technique he’s perfected over the years of quasi-legal professional engagements. As he nears Arthur, he feels more than sees the way the other man reacts to his proximity, a subtle shift and straightening. Their conversation of the night before plays in his head, how Arthur sounded as he asked Eames to fuck him harder with his fingers. Eames can see so clearly in his mind’s eye the arch of Arthur’s spine as he reams himself with his fingers, eyes screwed shut in ecstasy. 

He stands behind and slightly to right of Arthur’s right shoulder and leans down to see what he’s typing. Arthur freezes and it gives Eames the opportunity to take a deep breath, get a noseful of the particular scent of him. The smell goes straight to his core - it’s astonishing, he thinks, how some people just smell inexplicably _right_. 

“What can I help you with, Mr. Eames?” Arthur bites out. 

“Ah, sorry to startle you,” Eames says diffidently. “I couldn’t help but notice the urgent nature of that phone call. Anything I need to know about?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately. I was going to - never mind, you’re here now,” Arthur says as he swivels in his chair to face Eames. He can’t quite bring himself to meet Eames’ gaze and it hurts, somehow. Like a repudiation. 

“How bad is it?” Eames asks, half-hoping for the worst, so he can retreat to some other tropical paradise and write this whole thing off. 

“Pretty bad. They want inception now.”

“They what?” Eames isn’t sure he’s heard correctly. ‘Inception’ sounds like a neologism, it’s certainly not a word he’s familiar with.

“It’s theoretical,” Arthur says, flicking his wrist towards his computer screen as though an explanation lies there. “Basically, it’s putting an idea in someone’s head instead of pulling one out.” He still hasn’t looked directly at Eames. It would be a little insulting if it weren’t so frustrating. Eames’ gaze roves restlessly over Arthur, picking up as much detail as possible while his mind boggles at the import of this revelation.

“I’ve never heard of this, but - wait a tick, have you done it before?”

“No, I just told you it’s theoretical.” Arthur sounds prissy and snippy and god help him, the sound makes Eames' heart race. He’s never said no to a little adversarial playfighting - taking the piss out of a stuffed shirt is about as fun as gets, for him. “We’ve sketched it out, though, me and Cobb. He thinks it’s possible.”

“And you?”

“No.” Arthur finally meets his gaze. His eyes exert a magnetic pull on Eames. They stare at each other for a moment too long, and Eames feels himself heating up under his collar, despite the frigid AC in the basement.

Arthur surges up out of his chair and begins to pace agitatedly. “You can’t - there’s no point trying to make someone - look, we know that people’s subconsciouses are on guard against foreign minds. Projections would just attack any attempts to plant an idea. They would rip it to shreds, distort it, make it unrecognizable. Whatever you wanted to accomplish, even if a scrap of the original idea made it through, it would be so changed that it would be useless.”

“But what’s the harm in trying? So we get killed by projections and wake up. How would the client know whether the idea took or not? Seems like a safer bet than extraction, if you ask me.”

Arthur just shakes his head, doesn’t even respond to Eames’ observation. “Our client is affiliated with the Chao Pho. You do not want to cross them. Failure is not an option. Fuck.” Arthur sits again, in a chair at the large table, head in his hands. 

“So what does this all mean?”

“Cobb is cutting Soren and Sadiyah loose, he doesn’t want to let them in on the concept. We’ll have to make do with the build as it is, and use the formulation that Sadiyah completed today. And we’re changing headquarters. I’ll be here all night getting shit moved.”

It takes a minute for Eames to process all of this. 

“I’ll help,” he says as he realizes that given Cobb’s propensity for dodging the grunt work, this means that it will be him and Arthur in close quarters for the rest of the job. He may as well ingratiate himself now, since he doesn’t plan on giving Arthur any space whatsoever in the days ahead. 

It’s for his own good, he tells himself.


	7. Chapter 7

Moving HQ took most of the night and afforded a plenitude of opportunities for Eames to brush up against Arthur, to invade his space and his senses, without seeming obvious about it. He just wanted to underscore his three-dimensionality and desensitize Arthur to his sudden appearance. It seemed to be working to a certain extent - Arthur is no longer bristling at his every look and word. However, the angry vibes have been replaced by a kind of nervous energy that is in some senses worse. Eames gets the feeling that Arthur is physically restraining himself from doing a runner, the way he’d done immediately after Eames had stated his first name.

So he decides to pull back on the space-invading, let Arthur catch his breath while he attacks the problem from another angle. Which is getting him to open up in person. 

Which proves impossible.

Arthur is perfectly happy to show his tender underside on the phone, confessing things that Eames is beginning to be quite sure he has never told another living soul. He’s also comfortable pushing the boundaries of his ability to do as he’s told, no questions asked, in a carnal sense. His biddable nature unfolds like an erotic bloom, and Eames wants to drink it in every hour of the day. 

Eames is an expert at turning emotions on and off like a tap, but Arthur seems so straightforward, it’s astonishing how completely open he can be on the phone and how utterly closed in person. 

It’s been three days in the new office. No matter how gently he times his approach, Arthur’s walls slam back up as soon as he broaches any topic that isn’t directly and immediately work-related. It’s irritating, and more than that, worrying. How on earth has Eames let himself fall for someone this tightly locked down? 

Arthur is sitting at his old desk in their new office, a small suite in the Empire building, 17th floor, erect and alert and looking like no one would ever, ever get the jump on him. Eames is lying on the lawn chair, having just come out of a practice session, and he hasn’t yet made any noise or movement to show that he’s awake, but he still sees the minute shift of Arthur’s posture. He flashes on the sound of Arthur panting out his pleasure, how it called up an image of Arthur's body writhing in ecstasy. Eames adjusts himself and marvels at how the most fleeting reflection on last night’s phone call causes his cock to respond. He presses his hand against the base of his burgeoning erection, willing it down.

He intentionally makes a racket getting up off the chair and gauges how the lines of Arthur’s back relax, now that he registers that Eames isn’t readying himself for a stealthy approach. The impish spirit of mischief rises up in him against his will and he takes his opportunity almost without thinking. He feints towards the exit and then silently pads back to stand behind Arthur, leaning over his shoulder to get a better look at the computer screen. As he leans down, he angles his head to get a rather obvious whiff of Arthur’s pomade and lets out a soft sigh against the column of Arthur’s neck. Arthur stiffens and snaps, “What are you doing?” 

“Just checking to see what the developments are. You scarcely talk to me, here.” 

Arthur grinds his teeth as he shies away. “There’s no need to talk. I tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it. Practice your forge. Go back to Vongkusolkit’s office, I don’t even know why you’re here.”

“I’m on my lunch break.” 

“At three in the afternoon?” 

“They take long breaks at that office. No one even knows I’m gone.”

“I do,” Arthur growls, and Eames realizes that as much as he likes phone-Arthur, he’s really starting to hate this Arthur. Which is a shame, because this Arthur is real. He’s real, and he’s gorgeous, and he smells edible and Eames just wants to devour him, right here and now. 

“Are you telling me to get lost?”

“I’m telling you to do your job.” Arthur shoves his chair sideways and leaps out of it, heading for the loo. 

Eames watches him go and contemplates following him, but hesitates. If he forces himself on Arthur in this state, he’s not sure he would like the results. 

He goes back to his fake office job, instead. 

\------

The last thing he expects is a phone call from Arthur that night. He’s already two sheets to the wind when the phone rings, and when he sees it’s Arthur, he’s halfway tempted to fling the phone out the window. 

“Will?” Eames can’t place the emotion in Arthur’s voice- there are too many threads in it, too much complexity even for someone with his caliber of skill to parse.

“Arthur,” he says, a bit flat. He’s too conflicted to know what kind of show to put on at this point. He doesn’t want to fuck up their working relationship, although how it could possibly get more fucked up is beyond him, and he doesn’t want to end their phone arrangement, as fucked up as it already is, but he probably can’t avoid doing one or the other. Probably both.

“I need to confess something,” Arthur says. 

“Oh,” Eames replies, taken aback by this turn. 

There is a long pause. “This is hard.”

Eames hmms noncommittally. 

“This is impossible. I’m in an impossible situation.”

“Care to share?” Eames says, feeling strangely cavalier. He’s tired of the drama. He cares for Arthur, in a way, but it’s starting to feel hopeless; and the person he cares for doesn’t match up with the physical reality he’s confronted with on a daily basis. 

“You know I know it’s you, right?”

Eames can’t help it; he bursts out laughing and has a hard time stopping.

“It’s not funny.” Eames can see his expression in his mind’s eye, a fierce scowl.

“It is, Arthur, it’s extremely funny. _How_ could you think I didn’t know you knew? How vastly do you think I underrate your perceptiveness? Conversely, just how stupid do you think I am?”

“I just wanted some clarity.” Arthur sounds dangerously stiff. Eames tries to impose some emotional equilibrium. 

“I suppose I can understand that. Yes.”

“I feel stupid for - for pretending. Like Will isn’t you. Eames. I’m sorry. That was shitty.”

Eames is taken aback at the baldness of this apology. It’s stark and clumsy but it unties a knot in him. 

“For what it’s worth, and not to make you feel badly, it never even crossed my mind that you might not know. ‘I can’t’ was brief but crystalline in its clarity.” 

Arthur huffs out a long breath. “I- I know you probably hate me now and I don’t blame you, but-”

“Woah there, hold up a bit,” Eames says. “I don’t - why would I hate you?”

“You don’t have to pretend that I’m not an asshole, Eames.” Eames can hear the effort it costs Arthur to call him by his last name in this context.

“You’re not an asshole,” Eames says, surprising himself. Truthfully, he’d been coming to the opposite conclusion, and it was rather a relief as it had taken some of the strain off the bewilderment and frustrated lust he’d been drowning in. Arthur’s willingness to take accountability for his actions reverses his ability to believe it, though.

“I’m not.” Arthur sounds flatly dubious.

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames drawls the name out fondly, and now he’s more than surprised at himself; he really has no idea where he’s going with this, but he’s going to let his id take the reins. He feels lucky at the moment, he’s flush with Arthur’s apology and he can sense just the faintest glimmer of hope on the horizon. A gambler learns to trust his gut. 

“You can’t be an asshole. You stick by your friend when he gives you nothing but shit day after day. You ask so little, just a friendly voice and a little erotic roleplay to take the edge off. You have walls up, yes, and you didn’t handle my sudden appearance in your working life well. But if you think setting boundaries and being snippy make you an asshole, you haven’t met many true assholes. And since I know that can’t be the case, given our line of work, I can only conclude one thing.”

“What’s that.” 

“You can’t see yourself very clearly.” He pauses to see how this is taken. “It must be very frustrating, when you see everything else with such clarity.” 

“That’s a little bit insulting,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t sound offended. 

“Why did you call? To tell me the glaring untruth that you’re an asshole?”

“Partly.”

Eames takes a deep breath through his nose. “And why else?”

“If you know me so well, maybe you can tell me.” Eames hears the challenge there, and he mentally takes up the gauntlet.

“You want me to take down your walls.” 

All of Arthur’s breath leaves him in a rush. 

“Say no more, darling. See you at the office.” Eames hangs up, feeling light-headed with anticipation.


	8. Chapter 8

Eames has learned enough about Vongkusolkit to do the forge competently, and given the level of professional respect he’s received from Cobb on this job, which is to say virtually none, he’s not inclined to go above and beyond the basic fulfillment of his duty. The inception theory has yet to be fully explained to him - he gets the sense that Arthur is still attempting to talk Cobb out of it. 

So he submits his resignation from the office job via email and takes the Skytrain from his hotel room to the Empire building where he presumes Arthur is currently tearing his hair out, either trying to force Cobb to get the client to relinquish inception or trying to scramble some scheme to make it work. Eames would love to help him brainstorm and troubleshoot; he’s fascinated by the concept, eager to flex his muscles on a new challenge. But he’s learned a few things about Arthur by this point, so he’s not going to meddle in the internecine warfare of Arthur’s relationship with Cobb. 

Instead, he thinks to himself as he strides through the glass door of their suite, scanning the room for Arthur’s dark head of hair, he’s going to meddle in the internecine warfare between Arthur’s mind and the rest of him: body, soul, heart.

Arthur isn’t in the office yet, which is odd considering that he’s always there when Eames arrives, no matter what time that happens to be. Eames shrugs and pushes aside the fleeting thought that perhaps Arthur is avoiding the office, given Eames’ promise of last night. 

That thought is harder to push away three hours later, when it’s nearly noon and there’s still no sign or word from Arthur. He’s used to not seeing Cobb, who seems to appear and disappear at random, taking the PASIV with him as often as not. But Eames is moving past selfish concern for the fate of his personal project with Arthur and towards concern about Arthur’s physical safety when Cobb and Arthur arrive, both looking serious as a cardiac arrest.

Fuck and damn and blast, so much for chiseling away at psychic armaments. Looks like inception is a go. 

Three hours after that, when Arthur has still not met Eames’ eye and Cobb has still not paused for breath, Eames is more concerned for Cobb’s physical safety. Eames himself wants to murder him for blocking his plans, and Arthur is quite clearly entertaining homicidal thoughts of his own. 

“So, it would be better to go down another level, but we don’t have the right compound. Still, I’m convinced that with Eames’ forge and Arthur’s knowledge of the composition of the board and layout of the maze, we can do this on one level.” Cobb has repeated himself about twelve times at this point and seems to have wound himself down to silence.

“Cobb,” Eames finally breaks in, “I’m still not sure how I’m supposed to plant the idea in Shinawatra’s mind that he wants to resign from the Board presidency. All our research has been directed at uncovering the plans to acquire the rest of the Mall Group’s holdings. Getting background on the mark’s relationship with Vongkusolkit has been incredibly challenging, the culture is so tight-lipped with outsiders. I may be able to forge him so that any of his employees would be fooled, but my knowledge on their interpersonal dynamic is thin. We all thought he would be at the office on a regular basis but he’s been wrapped up with a new mistress.”

Arthur runs his hands through his hair, which Eames has not yet seen him do. It leaves the hair fuller, more relaxed, and he looks years younger with it mussed like that. A pang goes through him and he curses Cobb for ruining his plans, curses the client for wanting some useless knob to resign from an irrelevant board- in this moment he’d happily forego his cut to take Arthur by the hand and run off with him to, oh, anywhere.

“Look, if we’re going to do this, we may as well do it right,” Arthur says finally. “Eames, we don’t have time to wait to find out more about Vongkusolkit’s relationship with Shinawatra. But what we can do is go down a level and hope that planting the idea deeper will make it more likely to take hold.”

Eames looks at Arthur, who meets his gaze. “Have you done that before?”

Cobb interrupts Arthur’s attempted response. “We can’t, not without the right compound.”

“Actually, we can- if I dream us a PASIV device.” 

Cobb just stares at him, blankly. Arthur looked pointedly in another direction. 

“Arthur.”

“Yeah, I tried it.”

“How far down.” Cobb’s voice trembles with some suppressed emotion; fear or rage. 

“Just one. It was fine.” Arthur still isn’t meeting Cobb’s eyes. Eames intuits that this all has something to do with the personal disaster that has destabilized Cobb, but can’t imagine how.

Cobb gets up, agitated. “Well, we’ll all have to go under in turns and try it.” He goes to the PASIV and starts setting it up. “Arthur, we’ll go first and Eames will watch. Then I’ll come up and he’ll go down so you can test it on him, too.” 

Arthur nods, cold and impassive. Eames watches as Cobb readies the mix, sets the timer for five minutes. Arthur places his cannula, Cobb his own, and Eames presses the button. 

And then he’s stuck in a room with two sleeping men, one of whom he is dying to touch, to smell, to fuck. He lets himself run his gaze all over Arthur’s prone and slack form, feeling the stirrings of interest in his pants, which he ignores in favor of the way his heart turns over at the relaxed lines of Arthur’s face. He wonders if this is how Arthur’s face looks as he lies gasping in the wake of the orgasms Eames has given him. Smooth, soft, replete. 

The timer beeps and Cobb’s eyes blink open, but Arthur stays asleep. Cobb looks expectantly at Eames, who startles into action, placing his cannula and lying back on the chair that Cobb has vacated. 

“It worked, actually,” Cobb says. “I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t work for you. I hope you don’t mind that I went first. I just wanted to- check some things out.” He looks shifty, but Eames can’t place the possible reason.

“Ready?” Cobb asks, and Eames nods. Then he’s slipping down the rabbit hole, landing in a dream with soft edges; a gently constructed space, all blurry brushstrokes and gauzy light. He looks around for Arthur, doesn’t see him.

Eames moves towards the vague outlines of a door and into the sunlight, where the dreamspace is more definite. He sees Arthur standing with his back to him, looking out over a shining lake surrounded by deciduous forest. The sunlight strikes his skin and gives him a halo. He’s hard to look at. Eames looks anyway.

He sees the moment when Arthur registers his presence; his back stiffens, his head turns ever so slightly to the right. Eames adjusts his approach to come up just out of the field of his peripheral vision, and Arthur doesn’t turn around. He stands right behind Arthur, just stands there for a moment, absorbing the electric presence of him, enjoying the fact that he’s not flinching away or fleeing.

He inches closer, noticing the way the hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck curls just a bit, wanting to reach out and touch it. As he leans in, he gets a whiff of Arthur’s personal scent, not pomade or cologne but the smell of _him_ , inimitably human and specific. Lust roils up within him.

“Arthur,” he says rough and low. Arthur’s head inclines down a fraction. “What do you want from me?” Eames asks, hands starting to shake from the effort not to reach out and _take_.

“I want,” Arthur starts, then shudders. “What you said. About my walls.” 

“What about your walls?” Eames prods, voice unsteady.

“Take them down.”

 

He begins to reach out, but Arthur chooses that moment to turn. They end up inches away from each other, eyes locked, breathing quickly. 

“Eames,” Arthur says, gaze flickering to his lips. Eames shakes his head.

“Will,” he says. “Call me Will, darling.” 

Arthur’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Will,” he tries, then closes his eyes.

“No, pet. Look at me. This is me. I’m Will.” Eames still isn’t touching him, and the restraint is killing him.

Arthur’s eyes open again, this time burning brightly. “I need this,” he says, voice breaking. “I have never had what I needed. I’m so afraid-”

Eames stops him, finally reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m right here and I want to give it to you. What you need. All of it.”

Arthur nods, looking overwhelmed. He reaches a hand out, fumbling at Eames’ sleeve. Eames pulls him in close, tucking his chin over Arthur’s shoulder, pressing their temples together. This is about so much more than fucking and Eames is terrified, but he’s not going to let Arthur see that.

Arthur pulls away to look Eames in the eye at close range. His eyes flicker once more to Eames’ mouth and his head tilts. Eames leans in and brushes his mouth across Arthur’s beautiful lips, just the lightest feathering touch. His lips are warm, his breath impossibly dream-sweet. Arthur shivers in his arms, then pulls away completely.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says, looking down at the ground, and then off towards the sketched-out building Eames had emerged from. 

“Let’s go down a level, see what we find,” Eames suggests, deciding not to press him right now. Arthur looks like he’s about to run. Eames’ heart is racing. “Where’s the PASIV?” 

Arthur gestures towards the building behind Eames, and together they walk into the dimly lit space. It gradually lightens and gains definition as Arthur looks around, until it’s the interior of a rather posh and minimalist beach house. There’s a PASIV sitting on a glass coffee table that Eames hadn’t noticed before, near two long midcentury couches positioned in an L shape. Arthur sits on one and readies the device, pulling out the long cords deftly. It’s identical to the real life thing, almost violently shiny and surgical looking. Eames takes his tube and cannula from Arthur, their fingers brushing lightly.

“I’ve never done this before,” Eames says. “I wasn’t sure it was possible.”

“It is,” Arthur says, meeting his eyes and smiling tightly, then looking down to place the cannula in his own arm. Eames places his own and lays himself on the other couch, head towards where he believes Arthur’s will be when he lays down. Arthur says, “It’s just like in real life, close your eyes and it will just happen.” 

He pushes the button and Eames slips down that same rabbithole. It really is indistinguishable from the first slide and he is astonished to find that this is not only possible, but it’s happened. It’s happening.

He refocuses his eyes and sees that he’s inside that Escher drawing, the one in which staircases run every which way, walls looming from overhead, windows underfoot. He struggles to get his bearings and when he does, he sees Arthur, heading away from him up a staircase at right angles to where Eames stands, gaping. He approaches the stairs and feels the queasy slide of gravity reorienting itself around him, tipping him so that he’s on the same plane as Arthur, only half a flight away. 

Arthur has paused to look out a window that he’s passing, and Eames catches up with him, coming to rest on the step just below him, which is when gravity -- or is it perspective -- shifts again and Eames is on the stair above him instead. He grabs at the railing to prevent himself from falling down on top of Arthur. 

“Arthur,” Eames barks, and he sees how Arthur’s posture changes at the sound of his voice. His resolve stiffens. He will do here what he was planning to do before Cobb showed up. Better here, in fact, at two removes from reality. 

“Arrthurr,” he repeats on a long purr, feeling the rich vowels slide past his lips to pour into Arthur’s ear, his name a caress. 

All tension melts away from Arthur at the sound, like his whole body has come to heel. Eames’ cock starts filling at the sight, and a bubble of hope rises within him. That seventh sense of luck hovers on the edge of awareness as his plans shift and adjust like the gravity in this dreamscape.

“Take off your clothes,” he says in his master’s voice, and before the last word leaves his mouth Arthur’s hands are in motion, removing his jacket and going to the top of his shirt, making quick work of the buttons and then the cufflinks. They ping on the floor as he strips off, and his hands move on to his belt. Eames watches avidly, eyes devouring the naked skin and shifting muscles of Arthur’s back and shoulders. He wants to touch but doesn’t want to arrest him in his compliance, and he feels sure that if his hands made contact, Arthur would be too distracted to continue. 

Arthur steps out of his trousers and briefs, and Eames swallows at the sight of his naked limbs, strong and lithe and bare and warm and here. The moment hangs in the air, the shimmering unreality of the light giving everything a hard-edged glow. He inhales through his nose and steps forward a fraction of an inch, his hands hovering over Arthur’s shoulders, warmth bleeding into his palms. 

“Turn and kneel.” 

As Arthur does so, Eames steps back to anchor himself on the step and give Arthur room to turn. Arthur, on his knees with his head bowed, presents a gorgeous picture of submission and Eames’ cock responds to the sight with a hard twitch. His hand comes to rest on Arthur’s hair, exerting no pressure, just wanting to make contact without jolting him out of the reverie that is allowing this to happen. 

“Look at me, darling.” Arthur looks up, his gaze unfocused. Eames strokes his cheekbone with his thumb, curls his fingers behind his ear, feeling the soft, warm skin behind it. This ear, into which he spoke that first night. Arthur leans into the touch, his eyes sliding shut. When they open again, they look much more intent.

Eames drops his hand and steps sideways on the stair. “I want you to crawl up two steps and stay on your hands and knees.” His cock aches so much he feels lightheaded. Arthur’s eyes widen but his arms reach out to support him on the step up from where Eames stands. His back stretches out, exposing his ass and Eames can see the lush curve of it, wants to get his hands on it. Arthur crawls up the requested two stairs and stops, looking shyly over his shoulder. Eames’ heart feels like it’s stopped, then it pounds again, hard and fast. 

Eames goes down on his knees and crowds up behind Arthur, trying to keep his wits about him. He wants to fall bodily on top of Arthur and just grope him, rut against him mindlessly, but he won’t let himself lose control like that. Instead, he places a gentle hand on each of Arthur’s deliciously round cheeks, feeling the fine texture of the skin, softer than he could have hoped. His eyes close in bliss; he’s so happy to have this finally, even if it’s only in a dream. 

His fingers clutch at the flesh underneath them and he spreads Arthur open, a whuff of breath escaping him when he sees the tight little furl of his hole. It’s pink-brown, scrupulously clean and tender-looking and Eames wants to ravage it. Arthur rocks forward, apparently unsure of where this is headed.

“Hush, love. Have you ever been rimmed?” He knows that answer is probably no. Arthur’s relative lack of experience has been quite obvious on the phone, but he doesn’t want to assume. Arthur shakes his head, wordlessly.

“Would you like me to show you how it’s done?” Eames asks, his voice hoarse with need. Arthur nods, stilling himself. Eames strokes along his flanks, hands warm and sure, attempting to ground him. Then they return to Arthur’s ass, spreading him again as Eames lowers his head. Arthur smells phenomenal here, urgently musky and dark, and he licks over the whole crevice, from balls to the base of Arthur’s spine. Arthur gasps and then moans, and Eames smiles against his hole, then points his tongue and flickers it ever so slightly. 

This draws a longer moan from Arthur, along with a rearing back as he involuntarily chases the implied intrusion. Eames delivers on the promise and works his way in, wagging the tip of his tongue back and forth, seeking to elicit more responses. Arthur’s hips shift like he’s beckoning Eames’ tongue further in, and Eames thrusts it in as far as it will go, causing Arthur to make a shockingly animalistic sound. 

Eames fumbles at the crotch of his trousers, trying to put pressure on the base of his cock. Arthur is too responsive, it brings Eames closer to the edge than he wants. He closes his lips around Arthur’s hole, frenching it, slurping and stabbing his tongue in and out. He could do this for days; he absolutely adores having someone in this position, dancing on the tip of his tongue, vulnerable and wanton. 

The sounds Arthur makes, the sinuous movement of his spine, are hypnotic. Eames isn’t sure how long he’s been lapping at his hole - it feels timeless, but that’s possibly just the dream having its way with them. He reaches under Arthur, getting his hand on Arthur’s long, dripping cock, and the feel of the precome sliding down the shaft makes Eames’ own cock throb insistently in his pants. He’s got to take care of it somehow but he can’t stop what he’s doing and he needs at least one hand to hold Arthur’s cheeks apart. It occurs to him that he might just come from this alone and that thought, ironically, is what sends him over the precipice of his own orgasm. He tongues and strokes Arthur all the way through it, and as his cock empties itself into his pants, Arthur bucks and groans and collapses on the stairs, trapping Eames’ hand underneath him. 

Eames falls on top of him, panting, overwhelmed. As he comes out of his post-orgasm fog, he notices that they’re not in the Escher drawing anymore - Arthur is spread out on top of a fallen log and they’re in the middle of a primeval forest, shafts of light penetrating the canopy of trees overhead. 

Arthur stirs and Eames climbs off of him, watching as he sits up and turns around. His mouth falls open as he looks around. Birds call out to each other in the treetops.

“No more walls, then,” he murmurs, and looks at Eames, eyes soft. And that’s when the timer runs out.


	9. Chapter 9

Eames can’t say that waking up to Cobb’s face is welcome after coming in his pants with his tongue up Arthur’s ass. In fact, he heartily wishes Cobb would fuck right off and die. But he manages a wan smile and he’s pretty sure he utters some halfway coherent reply to Cobb’s inquiry about how the trial went. 

He looks over to see Arthur regaining consciousness and their eyes meet, electric promise in the mutual gaze. 

Cobb claps Arthur on the back as he’s rising from the lounge chair, then excuses himself to the loo. Thank god and all his angels, singing hallelujah in the choir invisible.

Arthur’s gaze follows Cobb out the door and then slowly returns to Eames, where he still reclines in his chair. He’s breathing quickly. Eames stands up and takes a step towards him, and Arthur takes a step back. 

“Stop,” Eames says, softly. Arthur blinks and stands stock still. A slow smile plays on Eames’ face; the obedience to his command is unexpected given that this is real life, but exceedingly pleasing. 

He walks to Arthur, closing the last empty inches between them. His hands go to Arthur’s waist; he notes his catching breath, the fluttering of his eyelids. Eames’ own heart is pounding in his chest, fit to burst. He’s thrilled but terrified that Arthur will break and run. He leans in, focused on Arthur’s mouth, soft and receptive-looking, falling just slightly open as Eames angles his head. Instead of kissing him, Eames puts his mouth next to Arthur’s ear and licks along the shell. It draws a hiss of surprise from Arthur, whose hands go up to his forearms and grasp hard as he swoons into Eames.

Just then Cobb returns and Eames curses his luck. He drops his hands from Arthur’s waist before Cobb notices and smoothly pivots to a desk, pretending to look for a pen. What he would do with a pen if he found it, he’s not sure. Maybe stab Cobb in the neck.

Arthur stalks over to the other desk where his laptops are arrayed and fiddles with them in an unconvincing manner, while Eames covertly adjusts himself in his trousers. Cobb sits at the conference table and puts his feet up on it, looking at the ceiling, apparently seeking inspiration. 

“I’ve got it,” he says after a few tense moments. He stands up and starts ranting about people’s motivations and positive and negative emotions, and it’s clearly nothing that Arthur hasn’t heard before, to judge by the face he makes. Eames stifles a nervous, giddy laugh. Then he tunes into what Cobb is saying, because for once it’s not obliquely self-aggrandizing nonsense, and the germ of a plan forms in his mind. He thinks he might know how to plant the idea so it will take: they have to put the board meeting on the first level rather than the second. 

Once he’s aired his proposal, Arthur looks at him with an expression of surprised admiration, and Eames beams at him. Arthur looks away and flushes. Cobb affirms the proposal and they jointly hash out the details, Eames glancing over at Arthur compulsively. Focusing on the task at hand is almost physically painful, but he feels he does a passable job of not throwing Arthur over the table and taking him in front of Cobb.

After the longest three hours of Eames’ life, Cobb gets up and makes one of his flimsy excuses, taking the PASIV with him and telling them to be on the alert for the go signal. Once the glass door has whooshed to a close behind him, Eames’ every nerve lights up in anticipation of what comes next. Arthur is technically sitting down but his muscles are poised for fight or flight.

“Arthur,” Eames rumbles, shifting in his seat and looking him in the eye. Arthur leaps out of his seat and stands, vibrating with potential energy. Eames in counterpoint relaxes against his chair and opens his legs invitingly. He scans Arthur for a reaction and that’s when he notices the wet patch on Arthur’s crotch. The sight of it sends a devastating jolt of lust careening through him. “Come here.” His voice is raw with desire.

Arthur startles and then visibly melts. His shoulders settle, his face relaxes, his eyelids flutter and slide half shut. He walks around the table in an apparent daze, comes to a stop between Eames’ knees. He is clearly uncertain of what to do, his head cocked fractionally to the side while he stares at Eames’ mouth. 

“Get down on your knees.” Arthur sinks down, head bowed. Eames takes a moment to admire the supple grace of him, then stands up out of his chair.

“Undo my trousers, love,” he says, fond and rough. 

Arthur’s head tilts up, his gaze unguarded and hazy with arousal. His nimble fingers unbuckle the belt and deal with the fastenings on the pants, which slide to the carpet. Eames’ cock is hard, the outline in sharp relief through his briefs. Arthur’s gaze shifts to it and his eyes go wide. Perhaps Eames should have warned him. 

Arthur darts a questioning look up to him and Eames nods. “Those too,” he confirms, and Arthur slides his fingers into the elastic waistband, pulling down. Eames’ cock bounces as it’s released from the cotton, coming to rest tilted right at Arthur’s mouth, looking almost expectant. Arthur’s eyes close and he sways forward as though wanting to take it in, but he waits for instruction. 

“Yes. Suck me, Arthur.” Arthur’s eyes fly open and flicker up to Eames', then shut again as he opens his mouth to receive the head of Eames’ cock. Arthur darts his tongue out and the light touch scintillates along Eames’ nerves, heat pooling in his groin. The head disappears between Arthur’s lovely lips and it's a heavenly sight. He closes his eyes to focus on the feeling of it.

Arthur runs his tongue around the rim of his unretracted foreskin, pushing at it and sliding it over the glans. He’s definitely done at least this much before, Eames thinks, as he gasps and pushes his cock just a scant half inch further in. Arthur takes it, and it makes Eames want to see how much more he can take. 

His hands have gone to the back of Arthur’s head, where the hair is surprisingly soft and pomade-free. One of Arthur’s hands is around the base of his cock, the other sliding up and down on his hip, skating over to his ass and grabbing compulsively, urging Eames deeper into his mouth. Oh he _has_ done this before, and he’s as skilled at it as he is at most things to which he puts his clever mind. Eames’ head falls back in spite of his need to see Arthur’s cheeks hollowed around his shaft, mouth stretched and wet and debauched. 

Suddenly it’s too much, his orgasm starts crawling up his spine, hot and insistent. Eames gently pulls Arthur’s head back, the glans popping out of his mouth with a filthy sound. Arthur looks hurt, disappointed. 

“No, love, that was perfect. But I need something else from you.” He holds out a hand to help Arthur up and once he’s standing, reels him in and kisses his temple. Arthur shudders out a breath and puts his hands on Eames’ hips as he sways forward. Smoothing his hands over Arthur’s shoulders, Eames backs up and says, “Take off your clothes, darling.”

Arthur’s eyes close—in anticipation or mortification, it’s hard to tell. Eames almost doesn’t care anymore; he needs to see Arthur’s flesh in the waking world, needs to feel it, draw responses from it. He hastily shimmies all the way out of his own trousers and then takes Arthur’s hands, placing one at his belt buckle and the other at his collar. Arthur blinks and begins complying with the instruction, hands trembling.

Eames is pierced by tenderness at the sight and steps in again to take over on the buttons. With every button undone, he sees more of Arthur’s flawless skin and he leans in get his mouth on it, tracing the outline of a nipple with his tongue and inducing a full-body shiver. He carefully removes Arthur’s shirt and puts it over the back of chair, then moves to the trouser placket. . Eames caresses the wet patch next to the fly, relishing his knowledge of Arthur’s so-called problem. Arthur gasps and shudders at the touch. 

“I can’t express to you, darling, how sexy this is,” Eames says as he kneels and brushes his mouth over the darkened cloth.

Eames licks his lips as he lowers the zipper pull; he can feel the heat coming off of Arthur’s body, gets a whiff of the incredible intimate scent of him. Arthur helps him push the trousers down, revealing soft heather grey boxer-briefs that are more alluring than the most revealing lingerie. His lovely cock has created a huge slick spot around the head, which Eames tongues, soaking up the taste of it. Arthur lets out a breathy, helpless moan that makes Eames want to throw him down and ram home with no preamble, but Arthur’s not ready for that. Yet.

He sucks the tip of Arthur’s cotton-covered dick into his mouth then gives it a little kiss and makes short work of the briefs to get his first look at his cock in person. It’s perfect, straining up at him eagerly, and he cannot resist taking the whole thing in one sloppy, painful mouthful, letting the head hit the back of his throat and gagging a little. Arthur deserves the effort of deep throating- Arthur deserves everything. 

He takes him in as far as he can, nearly to the root, over and over. Arthur is simply falling apart. Eames grabs him around his thighs, keeping him up as his knees threaten to buckle, and keeps going mercilessly, letting saliva drip all over his hand and Arthur’s balls. He’s unrestrained and wanton, almost desperate in his desire to please Arthur with his mouth. He looks up to see Arthur’s head thrown back, mouth open and panting, low moans pulled out of him with every bob of Eames’ head. 

His hands grip the back of Eames’ head to warn him of his impending climax, apparently wanting Eames to pull off, but Eames doubles down, controlling his gag reflex with an iron will and swallowing down the come that erupts in rhythmic pulses down his throat. As the pulses slow, Arthur starts to collapse and Eames surges up to stop his fall, maneuvering him up and over onto the table, which thankfully seems sturdy enough for what Eames has in mind. 

Arthur is blinking at him, eyes glazed, skin hectic with desire. He’s half-sitting with his ass on the edge of the table, wrecked in the aftermath of his orgasm, supporting himself on his elbows as Eames leans over him and goes in for a kiss. Arthur reaches up with one hand to pull Eames in and licks into his mouth with conviction. Eames was turned on before, obviously, but now the fire of lust razes all thought with a crashing, sparking rush. 

He keeps kissing Arthur, wet and deep, while he divests himself of his shirt. Then he pulls away with a groan and turns to find his trousers, in which he’s got some necessaries. When he returns, Arthur has laid down on his back, arms stretched over his head, the look in his eyes wild and brave and scared. Eames growls at the sight, overwhelmed by need to possess this creature. 

“Keep your hands there, there’s a good boy.” He sees Arthur process the request; he squirms and stays put, licking his lips uncertainly. “I’m going to touch you the way I wanted to before, when I was half the world away,” Eames says as he reaches for Arthur’s legs, to prop his feet up on the edge of the table. He rolls the condom on and rips open the lube packet, then sets it down to spread Arthur’s legs further apart, noting as he does how much give there is in Arthur’s hips. He’s so flexible and limber, and as Eames is assaulted by a vision of all the positions he might be able to twist him in, his dick throbs eagerly. His thumbs stroke the sensitive skin around the tiny little furl, and Eames leans in to lick at it. Which is when he notices the slickness already there, and he pulls back slightly to bring a finger in, probing, testing. He lifts his head to meet Arthur’s gaze, shocked. 

“You’re already prepared,” he says disbelievingly. Arthur nods, his face vibrantly red, looking defiantly at Eames. 

“I asked you. I want this.”

Eames has the devil of a time not swooning. Arthur. So scared, so brave. So ready. 

“I’m going to give it to you, love,” he murmurs reverently, fingering the hole a bit, just to make sure, and reveling in the way Arthur arches his back like he’s been electrocuted. After a few moments, he lines up his cock and slides in, one aching millimeter at a time, devouring Arthur’s reactions to the slow incursion. Arthur writhes, pants, moans with tortured abandon. He flexes his fingers like he’s desperate to grab onto something but he’s just barely managing to heed Eames’ order. Eames, seated fully now, drinks in the sight of him, the constricting heat of him, and then _moves_.

He pistons out and in, a seesawing rhythm like the rocking of a boat, circling his hips on the downstroke to punctuate his presence inside of Arthur. Arthur’s body is responsive like he couldn’t have imagined, every muscle undulating in concert to welcome his cock. It’s intoxicating. He steps up the pace unthinkingly, then slows down when he sees the strain on Arthur’s lovely face. 

“No, no - keep going- please, _please_ fuck me, Will,” he says, head rolling back and forth on the glossy white tabletop, eyes clenched shut. 

Eames grabs him up by the hips and ass to grind harder into him, taking him at his word. He’s never felt anything like this, his entire body is on fire- but it’s more than that. He’s known that he’s falling for Arthur, it’s impossible to miss, but he didn’t know how much _this_ would send him careening directly off the cliff all at once. He loves this man. He barely knows him, and he knows him better than he’s ever known anyone. He wants to know him better than anyone has ever known him, better than he knows himself. 

He’s thrusting at a blinding pace and Arthur is taking it, just _taking_ everything he has to give, completely abandoned to Eames’ will. He’s never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. Arthur’s hands are still up over his head, putting his body on display in an unbearably fetching way, but Eames suddenly needs to feel them holding him. “You can take your hands down, Arthur,” he growls. “Put them on me.”

Arthur opens his eyes and lowers his hands, one coming to rest on his shoulder, the other on his face. The expression in Arthur’s eyes is one he could never possibly tire of, one he can hardly believe is directed at him. He feels his orgasm building, rising like an unrelenting crescendo. 

Eames looks down to see Arthur’s cock is bouncing on his stomach, shining slick with precome, and he takes ahold of it. Arthur’s hand strokes his cheek and falls away, his body going limp with surrender. Through the haze of impending completion, Eames gropes and pumps his cock as well as he can, and when Arthur’s thighs start to quiver and come starts to jet over Eames’ hand, Eames gives in and comes hard, hips jerking spastically as he pumps Arthur full, over and over. 

He supports himself with a hand on the edge of the table, the other still holding Arthur’s cock, now sticky with his come. Arthur’s eyes are closed but not clenched, the eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks from the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. His face is blissful in repose. As Eames gently withdraws, Arthur’s eyes blink open. A smile begins to form on his mouth, which for some reason he struggles to suppress. Eames smiles helplessly at him and says, “Normally this is where I’d clean you off, darling, but we’re in a barbarically unprovisioned office suite. I could get some paper towels…?” He tilts his head towards the loo.

Arthur sits up quickly and nearly topples off the table, but Eames sweeps forward to catch him in his arms and Arthur’s arms wrap around his waist. They end in a tight embrace that has a lump forming in Eames’ throat. 

“I’ll just go to the bathroom in a minute. Let me catch my breath,” Arthur murmurs into his neck. Eames nods, afraid to speak. They hold each other for a long moment, hearts pounding. 

“I- I’ve never enjoyed sex like that,” Arthur says softly, voice muffled against the muscle of Eames’ shoulder. 

Eames pulls back a little to look at him. He’s always prided himself on his sexual performance, always suspected that he was more-than-usually skilled in the arts of love, so to speak; but for as many partners who’d seemed blown away by his bedside manner, no one had ever come right out and said it. He feels a pleased flush form all over his neck and chest.

“I mean it. That was -- I don’t know how it was for you, but for me, it was…” Arthur trails off, looking down between them. “We should get dressed.”

Eames’ gaze follows his, and he looks down to see his own semi-hard cock, condom still on, brushing against Arthur’s, also still half-hard. “I don’t know, I rather enjoy this view.”

He looks up to see Arthur smiling at him. “I want to - I want you to take me farther. I want to do everything. With you. It might take a while, I’m still. You know. I’m still me.”

Eames is nearly struck dumb at this. He stares at Arthur, taking in every facet of his expression, the light in his eyes, the inexpressibly lovely dimples. Eventually, his voice returns and he says, “Of course. Of course, love. We have all the time in the world.”

 

Epilogue

They’re called to the job within an hour of their liaison, while they were having a drink in the hotel bar and contemplating where to have dinner. Eames, once again, curses Cobb’s poor timing but puts on his professional mask and goes to work, no complaints.

The inception doesn’t take, due mainly to Cobb’s inability to remain present in the dream for reasons that are never adequately explained to Eames. But Shinawatra emails some documents about the acquisition plans to Vongkulsolkit, whose assistant for some reason forwards them to Eames’ still functioning work email. So at the end of the day, they get paid-- not as much as they would have for inception, but a hefty chunk nevertheless. A good reminder that old fashioned espionage still has its place. Not to mention administrative incompetence caused by relentless flirting.

The team goes their separate ways after the information is handed off and the accounts are credited - Arthur to Chicago, Cobb to LA, and Eames stays close by, visiting Angkor Wat for the second time.

When Arthur finally joins him, a scant week later -- the usual month-long separation too much to be borne-- Eames is beyond relieved. It’s nice, of course, to have someone to share the scenery and history with. Cambodia is beautiful and dangerous and contradictory, just like Arthur, and it’s been killing Eames to be in this sensual wonderland without him. But much more than that, Arthur’s presence confirms that this thing is not over. Far from it.

Eames is walking through the long corridors of the main temple when Arthur appears in a stone doorway, framed by the dying light of the day. His heart thuds, blood singing. Arthur just stands there, waiting, so Eames goes to him, hands skating over his arms, his flanks-- he’s wearing a thin t-shirt and linen pants, the most dressed-down he’s ever seen the man. Arthur leans in and nuzzles Eames’ neck, sighing, breath warm against his sweat-sticky skin. Eames bites his earlobe and grabs his hand, pulling him to see the famous bas relief, where the angels and demons churn the ocean of milk to release the nectar of immortal life. They stand in front of it, side by side, while the sun sets behind them.

After a long, silent walk through Siem Reap, they stop at a night market for some food and Tiger beer, then retire to the guesthouse.

Once in the muggy room, under the lazy ceiling fan, they make love slowly, carefully, no words exchanged. They come together again, then again, but the only sounds in the room are their sighs and moans and gasps. 

And after they’ve exhausted each other, given and received every variety of physical pleasure it’s possible to have, they lay in the dark back to back, their hands linking them, and talk. 

And Arthur says three words. And Eames says them, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was directly inspired by a client of mine, who told me that she sometimes talks on the phone to Sonia Sotomayor. Apparently, someone had passed along her number to the Supreme Court justice, telling her that my client was a funny lady and would help her relax. True or not, I loved this so much I had to turn it into a story.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr](http://www.oceaxereturns.tumblr.com)!


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